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Henry   D.   Bacon, 

St.   Louis,  Mo, 


University  of  Galifornia. 

aiFT  OF 

HENRY^  DOUGLASS  BACON. 

1877. 

Accesswn^  No.  .../..§:.^y.^.  SholfNo., 


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wnnr 

EDUa 

PSTCH. 

LIWARY 


JMp^< 


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^    •# 


PSYCHOLOGY ; 


OR, 


*      A  VIEW  OF  THE 


•     '^ 


HUMAN   SOUL 


INCLUDING 


ANTHROPOLOGY, 


BEING    THE    SUBSTANCE    OF    A    COURSE    OF    LECTURES, 

DELIVERED    TO    THE    JUNIOR    CLASS    MARSHALL 

COLLEGE,    PENN., 


BY 


FREDERICK  A.  RAUCH. 


NEW-YORK : 

M.    W.    DODD, 

Brick  Church  Chapel,  opposite  the  City  Hall. 


1840. 


^3 


^  ^. 


BDUC. 

PSYCH. 

UBRARY 


Entered  according  to  an  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1840,  by 
Frkderick  a.  Rauch,  in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of 
the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


A.    ADAMS,    rRINTER,    59    GOLD-STREET. 


*-K    ^■*-l^''  '•^ 


.«r 


^> 


4*^  '       '^ 


TO 


HIS  YOUNG  FRIENDS,  •  ^ 


THE  STUDENTS  OF  MARSHALL  COLLEGE,  .     ) 


THIS  VOLUME 


IS    AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED 


BY 


THE  AUTHOR. 


'# 


% 


-^-.♦- 


.% 


"^fk^i 


''%  , 


PREFACE 


^^  Know  thyself  ^^  was  the  inscription  on  the  temple 
of  Apollo.     The  meanina:  of  this  terse  admonition  was 
either  a  practical  one:  Know  thy  frailties,  thy  human 
weakness,  thy  sinful  nature  ;  acknowledge  thyself  what 
thou  art, — and  amend  thy  ways  ;  or  it  was  a  theoretical 
one  :  Man,  the  highest  being  in  nature,  who  studies 
every  thing  below  himself,  who  knows  the  soil  which 
he  cultivates,  and  the  stars  that  regulate  the  seasons, 
and  the  laws  of  crystallization,  vegetation  and  animali- 
zation — should  not  he  desire  to  know  himself?  a  being, 
who  stands  midway  between  the  kingdom  of  nature 
and  that  of  immortal  spirits  ?  who  is  the  measure  of 
the  earth  and  all  it  contains,  who  unites  what  is  dispers- 
ed in  nature,  every  power  and  every  beauty  in  himself? 
But  how  shall  man  become  acquainted  with  himself 
both  practically  and  theoretically  7     This  is  the  ques- 
tion, which  the  great  Apollo  did  not  answer.     Shall  he 
merely  observe  himself?     But  man  is  inclined  either  to 
place  too  high  or  too  low  a  value  upon  himself;  he  has 
not  a   proper   measure  for   his  judgment  in  himself. 
Shall  he  watch  others  ?     He  that  will  understand  him- 
self must  observe  those  around  him,  but  to  understand 
them,  he  must  look  into  his  own  heart.     Thus  he  may 
indeed  obtain  a  knowledge  of  man,  but  one,  that  is  with- 
out systematical  connection,  incomplete,  partial  and  im- 
perfect.    While  we  cannot  do  without  such  a  know- 
ledge of  man,  the  admonition  of  Apollo  will  only  be  list- 
ened to  fully,  when  we  connect  with  this  experimental 


g  PREFACE. 

knowledge  a  systematical  development  of  all  contained 
in  man,  especially  of  his  reason  and  ivilL  These  are 
the  basis  of  all  the  ihonghts  and  actions,  of  all  the  scien- 
ces and  practical  pursuits  in  man,  and  without  a  know- 
ledge of  them,  it  will  always  remain  difficult  to  under- 
stand man,  as  we  meet  him  in  life.  Theory  must  here, 
%s  every  where  else,  assist  practice. 

The  principal  object  of  the  author  in  writing  this 
book,  was  to  render  this  noble  and  delightful  science  ac- 
cessible to  all  classes  of  readers,  for  as  the  inscription  on 
the  temple  of  Apollo  was  not  only  intended  for  some,  but 
for  every  one  approaching  it,  so  the  knowledge  of  man 
iis  desirable  for  every  one  and  not  for  a  few  only.  The 
author  flatters  himself,  that  he  has  effected  this  purpose 
by  using  plain  language,  by  following  a  simple  course 
pf  thought,  by  taking  all  his  illustrations  from  nature, 
and  by  comparing  constantly  the  activities  of  mind  with 
$hose  analogous  to  it,  in  nature.  With  the  exception 
of  a  few  divisions,  it  is  hoped  therefore;  that  the  present 
"work  may  be  read  by  all. 

A  second  object  of  the  author  was  to  give  the  science 
of  man  a  direct  bearing  upon  other  sciences,  and  espe- 
cially upon  religion  and  theology.  Psychology  and 
theology  are  connected  by  their  common  subject, 
which  is  man.  Religion,  of  which  theology  is  the 
science,  is  intended  for  man,  and  for  him  only ;  psy- 
chology treats  of  man  and  not  of  any  other  being. 
Man  as  the  subject  of  psychology,  is  created  for  relig- 
ion and  cannot  do  without  it.  Religion  is  not  a  mere 
quality^  but  the  substance  of  man.  He  remains  what  he 
is,  though  he  has  no  learning,  no  beauty,  no  wit,  neither 
a  strong  memory  nor  an  acute  judgment;  but  he  ceases 
to  be  man  in  the  full  sense  of  the  term  when  he  has  na 
ifeligion  ; — he  is  then  only  an  animal,  more  cunning, 
crafty  and  prudent,  than  all  the  others,  one  that  can 
invent  machines,  but  he  is  no  longer  the  lord  of  the 
earth,  the  image  of  his  Creator.  Novv  religion  has 
for  its  soul,/ai/A  ;  this  contains  thoughts  and  ideas,  as 
for  instance,  those  of  providence,  of  sin,  of  sanctifi^ 
cation,  of  regeneration,  of  repentance,  &c.  Psychology 
develops  the  nature  oX  reason  and  consequently  tha^ 


* 


PREFACE.  6 

of  its  productions,  which  are  thoughts :  and  without 
understanding  the  nature  of  reason  and  its  capacities^ 
that  of  faith  will  not  be  clearly  known  ;  for  if  faith  and 
reason  differ,  as  they  do,  how  can  this  difference  be  ex- 
hibited, unless  the  being  of  each  is  manifest  to  us  i 
Again :  Faith  must  be  active  by  love,  or  else  it  is  dead. 
It  must  therefore  affect  our  will  and  fill  it  with  love  and 
animate  it  to  good  works.  If  so,  the  being  of  our  will 
in  its  state  of  nature,  and  previous  to  its  regenerationj 
ought  likewise  to  be  known.  But  as  such  it  exists  in 
the  form  of  desires,  inclinations,  emotions  and  passions^ 
and  these  are  the  subjects  of  psychology ;  hence  the  study 
of  the  latter  again  is  indispensable  to  a  thorough  study 
of  theology.  AVhile,  therefore,  the  first  section  of  the 
second  part  will  assik  the  science  of  dogmatics,  the  sec- 
ond has  for  its  remote  object  to  be  auxiliary  to  that  of 
christian  ethics. 

It  will  scarcely  be  necessary  toshowtheinfluence  which 
a  good,  systematical  knowledge  of  man,  of  his  reasoii 
and  will,  and  their  union  with  his  body  must  have  on  the 
practice  of  medicine  ;  and  if  the  physician  studies  humari 
and  comparative  anatomy,  physiology  and  somatology 
in  general,  he  will  find  it  ruuch  to  his  advantage,  td 
know  the  whole  life  contained  in  the  body  which  he 
dissects.  And  how  will  he  manage  cases  of  mental 
disease  without  psychology  ?  The  basis  of  all  patholo- 
gy is  certainly  a  knowledge  of  health,  and  this  must  bd 
the  same  in  the  sphere  of  mind. 

The  lawyer,  on  the  other  hand,  who  protects  our 
rights,  will  be  the  more  successful  in  doing  so,  the  bet- 
ter he  understands  human  nature ;  for  all  rights  ard 
those  of  man,  and  when  disputed,  passions  and  desires 
have  darkened  our  knowledge  of  them  ;  and  the  lawyer 
in  addressing  the  court,  in  developing  the  case  before! 
him,  must  well  understand  the  nature  of  the  passions,  to 
make  his  case  clear.  The  greatest  lawyers  and  public 
orators,  Pitt,  Sheridan,  Fox,  &c.,  were  also  the  finest 
psychologists.  Many  actions  are  committed  under  the 
influence  of  vehement  emotions  or  passions :  to  valud 
the  guilt  of  such  actions,  their  moving  springSj  the  pas- 
sions  must  be  known^ 


4  PREFACE. 

But  above  all  is  the  study  of  psychology  useful  to  pa- 
rents and  teachers ;  they  have  to  d  raw  out,  what  is  in  their 
children,  and  how  can  they  do  this  well  without  know- 
incr  the  nature  of  what  they  are  expected  to  cultivate  ? 
Hence  the  studyof  psychology  and  especially  of  desires, 
inclinations  and  emotions,  is  indispensable  to  them. 

Yet  why  should  we  speak  of  the  mere  usefulness  of 
a  science,  which  if  well  represented,  is  one  of  the  most 
entertaining  and  interesting,  which  the  human  mind 
has  produced?  Who  would  not  feel  anxious  to  see  his 
portrait,  drawn  before  the  eye  of  his  mind  ?  Psycholo- 
gy is  not  only  intended  for  the  wants  of  man,  whether 
sensual  or  intellectual,  those  of  life  or  of  social  inter- 
course ;  its  highest  design  is  to  make  man  conscious  of 
the  subjects  of  which  it  treats,  reason  and  will,  and  give 
him  full  possession  of  both.  Man  possesses  only  that 
of  which  he  is  conscious;  an  inheritance  of  which  I 
know  nothing,  may  be  mine  in  law,  but  not  by  posses- 
sion. Unless  I  know  my  reason  and  will,  I  possess 
neitlier  fully,  but  only  partially. 

The  present  work  is,  as  far  as  the  author  knows,  the 
first  attempt  to  unite  German  and  American  mental 
philosophy.  This  design  has  not  been  executed  by 
bringing  together  two  separate  systems  or  by  forming 
an  eclectic  compound,  which  is  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other,  and  the  parts  of  which  do  not  grow  forth  from 
one  spirit,  but  are  brought  together  from  different  sources 
and  united  by  the  writer — a  real  sphinx  in  the  sphere 
of  science.  The  author  was  rather  anxious  to  have 
whatever  the  work  contains,  bear  witness  of  one  and  the 
same  objective  spirit,  which  formed  all  the  parts  into 
07ie  life,  as  the  specific  life  of  a  tree  changes  all  particles 
into  one  juice. 

The  author  feels  himself  under  obligation  to  acknow- 
ledge fully  the  use  he  has  made  of  the  following  writers  : 
Locke,  D.  Stewart,  Reed,  Broion,  Rosenkranz,  Cams, 
Jr.,  Cams,  Sen.,  Daub,  Stiedenroth,  Suabedissen,  Es- 
chenmayer,  Heinroth,  Hegel,  Kant,  Wirth,  Steffens, 
Herbart,  Hartman,  and  others.  He  has  used  these  au- 
thors with  more  or  less  freedom,  and  especially  Carus, 
Jr.,  Daub  and  Rosenkranz,  whose  general  arrangement 


PREFACE.  O 

he  has  adopted  not  without  some  improvements,  how- 
ever, as  he  hopes.  The  work  was  to  be  of  one  spirit ; 
whatever  has  been  suggested  by  others,  had  to  become 
a  part  of  the  whole  by  receiving  this  spirit  and  by  rep- 
resenting it.  Hence  to  save  space,  a  general  acknow- 
ledgment has  been  thought  sufficient. 

As  to  the  language,  the  author  has  particularly  to 
beg  the  indulgence  of  his  readers.  He  hopes  this 
will  be  granted,  as  in  philosophy  beauty  of  speech  is 
less  desirable  than  clearness^  and  as  in  this  science  we 
desire  less  to  be  entertained  than  to  be  enriched  with 
ideas.  The  terminology  of  mental  philosophy  in  the 
English  language,  as  in  almost  all  others,  is  difficult 
and  not  perfectly  agreed  on.  Thus,  to  mention  one  in- 
stance instead  of  many,  the  difference  between  sensa- 
tion  and  perception  is  by  no  means  clearly  established  ; 
as  yet  it  is  still  disputed.  The  author  has  therefore 
used  sensation  indiscriminately  both  for  the  perception 
of  the  object  and  the  feeling  connected  with  it  in  the 
sense  by  which  it  is  perceived.  Simplification  has  been 
his  great  object ;  yet  the  signification  once  given  to  a 
word,  has  been  strictly  adhered  to. 

Mercersburg,  April  21st,  1840. 


INDEX  OF  CONTENTS. 


I.  INTRODUCTION. ^%' 

CHAPTER  I. — Difference  between  man  and  animal :  9 

1.  Piiysical  difference,    -             -             -  9 

2.  Psychical  difference,  -            -            -  11 
CHAPTER  n.— Life :              -           -           -           -  18 

1.  Of  the  plastic  power  or  the  principle 

of  individual  life,              -            -  21 

2.  Instinct,         -            -            .            .  30 

3.  Of  the  ingenuity  of  animals,              -  35 

4.  Relation  of  instinct  to  man,  -            -  41 
PART  I.     ANTHROPOLOGY:      -           -            -            -  47 

CHAPTER  I. — The  influence  of  nature  upon  man  :  -  48 
1.  The  influence  of  the  sun,  of  seasons 

and  times,  of  zones,  &c.,             -  49 

2.  The  influence  of  the  moon,     -            -  52 

3.  The  local  influence  of  the  earth,        -  52 

4.  The  diflferent  races  of  mankind,      <  -  59 

5.  National  differences,               -            -  61 

6.  dualities  of  the  mind,  produced  by 

sexual  difference :               -            -  65 

(1.)  Of  woman,               -            -  65 

(2.)  Ofman,        .            .            -  68 

(3.)  Their  union,             -            -  69 

7.  Temperaments  in  general :    -            -  70 

(1.)  The  sangume  temperament,  73 
(2.)  The  choleric,            -            -  74 
(3.)  The  melancholic,     -            -  75 
,                                    (4.)  Phlegmatic,             -            -  76 
-     8.  Mental  capacities :     -            -            -  77 
(1.)  Docihty,       ...  78 
(2.)  Talent,         ...  79 
(3.)  Genius,         ...  80 
9.  Idiosyncrasy  :             -            -            -  85 
(1.)  Sympathy,                -            -  86 
(2.)  Antipathy,  -            -            .  87 
(3.)  Apathy,       -            -            -  87 
CHAPTER  II.— The  natural   modifications  of  mind, 
produced  by  age,  waking,  sleep- 
ing and  dreaming ;          -            -  88 

1.  Age :              -            -            -           -  88 

(1.)  Childhood,               -            -  90 

(2.)  Youth,        -            -            -  92 

(3.)  Manhood,   -            -            -  93 

(4.)  Old  age,      -            -            -  94 

2.  Sleeping  and  waking :           -            -  95 

(1.)  What  is  sleeping  and  what 
is  waking, 

Where  is  sleep  met  with  ?   -  97 

What  is  its  design?             -  99 

[4.)  What  are  its  conditions?      -  101 

(5.)  What  is  a  regular  sleep?     -  102 

(6.)  What  is  faUing  asleep?       -  103 

(7.)  What  is  waking  ?   -            -  104 


%\ 


CONTENTS.  7 

Page. 

3.  Dreaming :     -  -  -  -  104 

(I.)  The  form  of  dreams,  -  111 

(2.)  Causes  of  dreams,  -  -  113 

(3.)  Prophetic  dreams,  -  -  115 

(4.)  Presentiments,  .  -  119 

(5.)  Visions,        -  -  -  124 

(6.)  Second  sight,  -  -  124 

4.  Magnetic  sleep :        -  -  -  128 

5.  Teh  health  and  the  diseases  of  mind  :  136 

(1.)  Melancholy,  -  -  138 

(2.)  Insanity,      -  -  -  139 

(3.)  Mania,         -  -  -  140 

CHAPTER  III.— The  power  of  the  mind  over  the  body:  148 

1.  The  mind  has  an  influence  o\er  the 

form  of  the  body  :  -  -  148 

2.  It  exercises  a  power  over  the  health  of 

the  body:  -  -  -  149 

3.  The   power  over  the  body  may  be 

seen  from  the  formation  of  habits ;  153 

4.  From  the  art  of  representing  its  emo- 

tions and  thoughts  by  the  motions 

of  the  body  ;  -  -  -  155 

5.  From  physiognomy :              -            -  157 
6    From  phrenolocry  ;    -            -            -  159 

PART  II.  PSYCHOLOGY.  .  -  -  -  161 

INTRODUCTION.  1.  Self-consciousness:  -  •  163 

2.  Mutual  relation  of  body  and  soul  ;  -  168 

3.  Personality :  -  -  -  174 

4.  Division  :       -            -            -            -  180 
SECTION  I.— On  Reason,                .            _            _            -  185 

CHAPTER  I.— 1.  Sensation  and  the  senses  :  -  185 

2.  General  remarks  on  the  senses  :       -  187 

3.  Of  Attention :            -             -            -  193 
CHAPTER  IL— 1.  Conception  :         -            -            -  199 

2.  Fancy ;  -  -  -  -  204 

3.  Imagination  :  -  -  -  208 

(1.)  Characteristics  of  Imagina- 
tion :           -            -           -  215 
(2.)  Semeiotic  Imagination,       -  225 
(3.)  Language,               -            -  237 
o,.    Its  etymological  elements,  237 

b.  Grammatical  and  syntactical 

elements,  -  -  240 

c.  Written  language,  241 
(4.)    Memory  :  244 

CHAPTER  III.— On  pure  thinking  ;  259 

Remarks  -.  -  -  -  259 

SECTION  U.— On  Will,  .  -  -  -  261 

1.  Desire :  -  -  -  -  264 

2.  Inclination :  -  .  .  266 

3.  Emotion  :       -  -  -  -  268 

4.  Passion  :       -  -  -  -  271 

5.  Relation    of     Desires,    Indications, 

Emotions  and  Passions  to  the  will :  273 

CHAPTER  I.— On  desires  :  -  -  -  -  279 

1.  Sensual  desires :        -  -  -  279 

2.  Sensual-intellectual  desires :  -  280 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

3.  Rational  desires  ;      - 

. 

281 

4.  Remarks  :     - 

_ 

284 

CHAPTER  II.— On  inclinations  and  passions  : 

_ 

286 

I.  Inclinations  arising  from  the  relation. 

in  which  man  stands  to  himself 

.   _ 

289 

1.  Self-love  :  - 

_ 

289 

2.  The  love  of  life:    - 

_ 

290 

3.  Self-hatred  : 

s. 

294 

4.  Self-love  as  a  passion  :      - 

. 

296 

5.  Self-love  as  passion  in  its  negative 

form :      - 

. 

298 

6.  Love  of  property  ; 

- 

300 

7.  Love  of  property  as  a  passion  : 

- 

304 

(L)  Covetousness,     - 

- 

305 

(2.)  Avarice,  - 
(3.)  Prodigality, 

. 

306 

_ 

307 

8.  Love  of  honor :      - 

. 

311 

9.  Love  of  honor  as  passion  ; 

. 

315 

(1.)  Ambition, 

. 

315 

(2.)  Pride,      - 

. 

316 

(3.)  Vanity,    - 

o 

318 

II.  Social  inclinations,  or  inclinations 

arising  from  the  relation  of  man 

to 

his  fellow-men : 

320 

1.  Love :        -            -            . 

_ 

320 

(L)  Sexuallove, 

- 

322 

(2.)  Sexual  love  as  a  passion. 

324 

(3.)  Parental  and  filial  love. 

^  - 

326 

(4.)  Fraternal  love,    - 

_ 

327 

'                                         (5.)  Nationallove,      - 

- 

329 

(6.j  Love  of  mankind, 
2.  Remarks: 

. 

330 

. 

331 

CHAPTER  III.— Emotions :      - 

_ 

335 

I.  Simple  emotions, 
I.  Pleasure: 

- 

335 

2:  Pain, 

II.  Mixed  emotions : 

337 

I.Hope: 

337 

2.  Fear: 

333 

3.  Remarks:    -            -           . 

341 

III.  Compound  emotions : 

341 

1.  Depressing  emotions : 

342 

(1.)  Melancholy,       - 

342 

(2.)  Anxious  expectation, 
(3.)  Despondency,     - 

344 

345 

(4.)  Patience, 

346 

(5.)  Awe,      - 

347 

2.  Strengthening  emotions : 

(1.)  Wrath,    - 

350 

(2.  Joy, 

351 

Conclusion :       - 

354 

On  Religion: 

354 

1.  Religion  of  desire : 

360 

2.  Religion  of  imagination: 

362 

3.  Religion  of  cool  reflection : 

368 

APPENDIX.— On  Animal  Magnetism  : 

375 

Note  to  Imagination : 

380 

Note  to  Remarks  on  Religion  : 

384 

.-^ 


*•  • 


INTRODUCTION 


Simla  quam  similis  turpissima  bestia'nobis ! 

Ennius^ 


DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  MAN  AND  THE  ANIMAL. 

It  is  a  very  general  remark,  that  man  is  the  highest 
order  of  animals,  or  that  he  is  an  animal  gifted  with 
reason.  Were  this  correct,  we  might  say  with  equal 
truth,  that  the  animal  is  man  without  reason  ;  or  that 
some  of  the  plants,  which  seem  to  form  a  transition  from 
the  vegetable  to  the  animal  kingdom,  are  animals  with- 
out sensation.  Though  man  has,  physically  speaking, 
many  things  in  common  with  the  animal,  he  neverthe- 
less differs  wholly  from  it.  Man  is  no  more  a  mere 
continuation  of  the  animal,  than  the  animal  is  merely 
a  continuation  of  the  vegetable.  The  difference  is  per- 
ceptible, both  physically  and  psychologically. 

1.  Man  has  the  same  physical  functions  that  the 
animal  has,  but  they  are  more  perfect  and  more  deli- 
cate. The  body  of  the  animal  is  either  covered  with 
scales  or  feathers,  with  fur,  wool,  or  bristles.  All  of  these 
approach  more  or  less  nearly  to  the  nature  of  vegeta- 
bles ;  and  some  of  them,  as  for  instance,  the  shell  ofsnails 
and  the  tortoise,  to  inorganic  nature.  These  insensible 
substances,  interposed  between  the  skin  and  the  ele- 
ments that  surround  and  affect  living  beings,  deprive 
animals  of  the  more  tender  and  delicate  sensations,  at 
the  same  time  that  they  like  conductors  protect  them 
from  the  inclemency  of  the  seasons.  The  body  of  man 
is  covered  with  a  thin,  highly  sensitive,  and  beautiful 
skin,  which  is  not  concealed  under  a  vegetable  and  life- 


m 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

less  veil,  but  unveiled  exhibits  the  presence  of  the  blood, 
the  pulsations  of  the  heart,  and  the  utterance  of  anima- 
tion over  the  whole  body.  Everywhere  sensitive,  the 
swellinor  life  shines  forth  from  within,  and  the  fresh, 
bloomins:  color  of  the  skin  is  but  the  expression  of 
the  internal  life,  the  mirror  of  its  healthy  or  sickly 
state.  Over  the  face  of  man  are  shed  beauty  and  spirit, 
and  even  animals  are  said  to  gaze  at  him  with  mute 
wonder.  The  cottiplaint,  that  man  alone  is  born  with- 
out raiment,  is  silly,  for  this  apparent  helplessness  is  the 
source  not  only  of  the  most  various  and  delicate  sensa- 
tions, and  knowledge  derived  from  them,  but  also  of 
much  ingenuity.  Man  has  not  claws,  but  hands,  that 
are  susceptible  of  many  different  positions,  by  which  he 
handles  the  chisel,  which  pours  life  and  beauty  over  the 
hard,  cold  marble,  the  pencil  that  animates  the  canvas, 
the  instrument  from  which  he  draws  forth  sweet  melo- 
dies, and  the  iron,  from  which  he  forms'  the  weapons 
denied  him  by  nature.  His  body  is  so  fashioned  that 
he  must  walk  upright ;  for  while  no  animal  is  intended 
to  walk  otherwise  than  on  all-fours,  the  proportions  of 
the  human  frame  are  such,  as  to  render  any  other  than 
an  upright  position  almost  impossible.  His  legs  are  much 
longer  than  his  arms,  his  knees  bend  forward,' his  eyes 
are  in  front  and  not  at  the  sides,  the  ligaments  of  the 
neck  are  weak  and  incapable  of  supporting  the  head 
when  hanging  down,  the  arms  are  at  a  great  distance 
from  each  other,  and  the  breast  is  broad  and  full.  A  hori- 
zontal position  would  drive  the  blood  into  the  head  with 
such  violence  as  to  cause  stupor.  Man  is  made  to  turn 
his  head  from  the  earth  to  the  sky,  from  the  right  to  the 
left,  to  view  now  the  crawling  insect  beneath  his  feet, 
and  now  the  millions  of  stars  above  his  head.  To  the 
fish  it  is  natural  to  swim,  to  the  bird  to  fly,  to  man  to 
walk  upright.  The  Greek  word  for  man  (dvepojnos)  in- 
dicates the  difference  between  man  and  animals  in  this 
respect.  It  influences  our  whole  being  and  nature. 
Even  the  bees,  when  they  have  lost  their  queen-bee, 
cause  the  larva  of  a  future  laboring  bee  to  be  transform- 
ed into  a  queen  by  changing  its  horizontal  to  an  upright 
position,  and  giving  it  different  food.   • 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

The  same  superiority  is  visible  in  the  human  face, 
its  proportions  and  features.  With  the  animal,  the  most 
prominent  part  is  the  mouth  ;  with  man,  the  upper  part 
of  the  face.  With  the  animal,  the  mouth,  jaws,  and 
teeth  are  to  serve  only  physical  purposes  ;  they  are 
formed  to  pluck  the  grasses  and  twigs,  or  to  seize  and 
carry  their  prey,  and  thus  tp  perform  at  the  same  time 
the  service  of  the  hands  of  man.  The  human  mouth, 
with  its  beautiful  and  sensitive  lips,  its  regular  rows  of 
teeth,  serves  not  only  the  body,  but  the  soul ;  nourishes 
not  only  the  stomach,  but  also  the  understanding.  Its 
muscles  are  so  movable,  that  according  to  Haller's  calcu- 
lation, it  may  pronounce  in  one  minute  fifteen  hundred 
letters.  The  contraction  of  a  muscle  forming  the  letter 
must  consequently  take  place  in  the  three  thousandth, 
and  the  vibrations  of  the  stylo-pharyngean  muscle  in 
pronouncing  a  letter,  in  the  thirty  thousandth  part  of  a 
minute.  '  No  bird  flies  as  fast  as  the  winged  words  fall 
from  the  lips  of  man.' 

Comparing  the  animal  physiologically  with  man,  we 
cannot  but  perceive  a  great  difference  in  this  respect 
also.  The  lower  the  animal  in  the  scale  of  being,  the 
more  it  is  confined  to  one  and  the  same  food.  To  this 
food  it  is  directed  by  instinct,  by  constitution  and  appe- 
tite, as  the  magnet  to  the  pole.  Man,  on  the  contrary, 
selects  his  food  and  drink  from  all  the  kingdoms  of  na- 
ture, from  the  salt  of  the  ocean  to  the  mushrooms  of  the 
forests,  from  the  oyster  and  the  amphibious  turtle  to  the 
lofty  sailers  of  the  air  and  ibex  of  the  High  Alps.  He 
prepares  his  food  by  fire,  and  the  story  of  Prometheus  is 
not  a  mere  fable.  The  laws  of  his  digestion  differ 
widely  from  those  of  animals,  the  functions  of  assimila- 
tion penetrating  more  thoroughly  the  elements  of  nutri- 
tion. The  flesh  of  the  fish,  when  compared  with  that 
of  the  bird,  is  found  less  formed  and  solid ;  that  of  the 
bird  less  so  than  that  of  the  quadruped,  but  the  flesh  of 
man  is  more  perfect  than  that  of  any  animal.  Thi 
shows  itself  externally  on  the  whole  surface  of  the  hu 
man  body,  and  especially  in  the  "  morbidezza  "  of  the 
skin,  the  trial-point  of  all  artists. 

2.  The  psychological  difference  between  man  and 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

animals  is  yet  more  striking.  The  animal  has  in 
common  with  man, -Sensation  and  Perception.  By 
sensation  we  understand  an  internal  motion  or  activity, 
produced  in  a  sensitive  organ  by  something  external. 
The  organ  may  be  seen  externally,  but  this  internal  ac- 
tivity or  motion  cannot  be  observed ;  it  can  only  be 
felt.  The  eye,  for  instance,  is  the  organ  of  sight ;  the 
fluid  surrounding  it  is  constantly  in  motion,  and  this 
motion  may  be  seen,  because  it  is  an  external  one.  But 
when  the  light  falls  upon  the  eye,  it  causes  a  sensation, 
which  as  an  internal  motion,  is  invisible  to  the  eye  of 
the  observer.  He  may  notice  the  dilation  or  contrac- 
tion of  the  pupil,  but  cannot  see  sight  itself,  nor  hear 
hearing.  Comparing  the  vibrations  of  a  string  of  the 
piano  with  those  of  a  nerve,  subject  to  sensation,  we 
shall  find  the  former  altogether  mechanical  and  exter- 
nal, the  string  moving  away  from  itself.  The  nerve, 
when  affected,  trembles  within  itself,  and  self-touched  in 
its  motions,  it  has  sensation,  or  feels.  The  vibrating  string 
of  the  piano  gives  a  sound,  but  the  sound  is  not  felt  by 
it ;  the  nerves  of  the  ear,  on  the  other  hand,  receive  a  sen- 
sation from  it.  These  trembling  motions  of  the  nerves 
are  called  sensations^  because  they  are  peculiar  to  the 
senses.  Now,  the  animal  has  these  sensations  in  common 
with  man,  but  with  this  difference.  In.  the  animal  one 
sense  prevails  over  all  the  others,  and  these  are  subservient 
to  it.  In  the  eagle,  for  example,  it  is  the  eye  that  is  pre- 
dominant ;  from  immense  heights  he  observes  the 
mouse  creeping  on  the  soil,  and  darts  upon  it,  certain  of 
his  prey.  Yet  this  one  sense  has  always  reference  to  the 
means  of  subsistence,  which  the  animal  seeks  under  its 
guidance;  so  that  while  it  may  be  extremely  acute  and 
successful  in  discovering  the  food,  it  may  be  dull  and 
stupid  in  respect  to  other  objects,  of  which  man  receives 
the  most  accurate  sensations  through  the  same  sense. 
The  ear  of  the  wood-cock  is  acute  in  perceiving  any 
rustling  noise,  as  that  in  the  fallen  leaves  of  the  forests, 
but  shrill  and  clear  sounds  it  does  not  notice.  The  eye 
perceives  only  such  objects  as  reflect  the  light  upon  it. 
The  eye  of  man  may,  however,  direct  itself  to  the  different 
parts  of  these  objects,  to  their  color,  proportions,  size 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

and  form,  motion  or  rest,  and  inspect  each  by  itself, 
while  the  eye  of  the  animal,  for  want  of  reason,  is  forced 
to  admit  a  sensation  from  all  these  parts  at  once,  and 
consequently  receives  but  a  confused  impression.  As 
one  sense  prevails  in  animals,  the  others  are  found  less 
active.  The  lion  has  an  excellent  scent,  but  his  sight 
is  weak.  Hence  the  animal  is  under  the  dominion  of 
one  sense,  while  the  harmonious  and  equal  strength  of 
all  the  senses  places  man  above  them,  and  makes  him 
master  of  them  all.  Which  of  the  senses  prevails  in 
an  animal,  depends  always  upon  the  species  to  which 
it  belongs.  In  the  eagle  it  is  sight,  in  the  mole  hear- 
ing, in  the  vulture  scent ;  but  wherever  one  sense  pre- 
dominates, the  others  must  subserve  and  be  directed  by 
it.  In  man,  no  sense  being  more  acute  than  another) 
none  reigns,  but  all  are  co-ordinate  with  each  other,  and 
subordinate  to  the  understanding.  The  animal  is  vis 
sentiens,  man  natura  intelligens.  Hence  it  is,  too,  that 
we  do  not  speak  of  insanity  or  derangement^  but  of 
madness^  when  animals  can  no  longer  distinguish  one 
object  from  another,  but  like  infuriated  elephants  or 
horses,  trample  under  their  feet  every  object  that  opposes  , 

their  course.  And,  finally,  man  sees  not  only  with  his 
eye  external  objects,  but  is  also  able  to  examine  the  eye, 
by  which  he  sees ;  the  animal  can  neither  see  its  eye  nor 
itself. 

Perception,  however,  is  more  than  Sensation.     The 
latter  is  and  remains  in  contact  with  the  object,  by  \  -^ 

which  it  is  called  forth,  and  is  consequently  dependent  -*►*■ 

on  it.  The  sensation  of  hearing  is  impossible  without 
the  vibration  of  the  air ;  that  of  seeing  is  impossible 
without  the  presence  of  light.  Sight  and  light,  hearing 
and  sound,  are  so  inseparable,  that  the  one  could  not 
be  without  the  other.  Without  light  the  eye  could  not 
see,  without  an  eye,  there  would  be  an  eternal  night.  And 
if  there  were  no  ear,  the  brooks  might  continue  to  mur- 
mur, the  waving  trees  to  rustle  their  branches,  the  winds 
to  roar,  but  to  earthly  beings  nature  would  be  silent  as  the 
grave.  Nor  can  man  avoid  admitting  a  sensation,  when 
the  element  that  excites  it,  acts  upon  the  organ.  As  we 
cannot  have  a  sensation  of  light  unless  it  falls  upon  the         ^ 


14 

eye,  so  we  must  have  it,  when  the  eye  is  affected  by  it. 
We  cannot  taste  salt  unless  it  lies  on  the  tongue,  but 
when  once  it  is  brought  in  contact  with  the  tongue,  we 
must  have  such  a  sensation,  as  its  specific  nature  is 
capable  of  exciting.  In  sensation,  therefore,  we  depend 
wholly  on  the  presence  of  external  objects,  and  are  de- 
termined by  them.  But  after  we  have  once  had  a  sen- 
sation, we  may  have  perceptions  of  the  objects  of  sen- 
sation, and  these  perceptions  are  possible  without  the 
presence  of  the  objects.  This  appears  from  the  fact  that 
one,  who  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  becomes  blind, 
may  have  perceptions  of  all  he  once  saw.  Yet  percep- 
tions are  impossible  without  previous  sensations,  for 
one  born  blind  can  have  no  perception  of  color  or  form. 
Another  distinction  between  sensation  and  perception 
is  this.  Sensation  always  exists  in  an  organ  ;  percep- 
tion not.  When  I  hear  a  fine  melody  for  the  first  time, 
I  have  a  sensation  of  it ;  but  when  afterwards,  without 
hearing  it,  it  floats  in  my  mind,  I  have  a  perception  of  it. 
Or  when  I  experience  hunger,  I  may  have  a  percep- 
tion of  food,  though  it  be  not  present,  but  when  1  eat, 
I  have  a  sensation  of  it.  The  animal  has  perceptions 
as  well  as  man.  The  hunter's  dog  dreams,  and  pur- 
sues in  his  dream  the  hare  or  the  stag.  The  dog, 
when  near  to  his  master,  has  a  sensation  of  him  by 
scent,  or  sight ;  but  when  seeking  him  for  days  in  suc- 
cession, he  can  have  only  a  perception  of  him.  The 
animal  is  confined  within  the  sphere  of  sensation  and 
perception,  and  as  its  sensations  are  limited  to  its 
natural  wants,  so  must  be  its  perceptions.  The  percep- 
tions of  man  are  as  much  more  numerous  and  accu- 
rate, as  his  sensations  are  more  various  and  acute.  But 
.  he  has  in  addition  to  sensations  and  perceptions,  what 
the  animal  has  not,  which  we  may  express  by  the  term 
^        apperceptions. 

As  the  animal  is  separated  by  sensation  from  the 
plant,  so  man  is  elevated  by  apperception  above  the 
animal.  Perception  and  apperception  differ  widely. 
The  objects  of  perception  are  always  such  as  are  single 
and  met  with  in  a  certain  place  and  time.  The  eagle, 
i         that  builds  his  nest  on  a  high  rock,  has  not  the  least  idea 


^I^RODUCTION.  ^  15 

■  '^ 

of  the  nature  of  the  stone  on  which  his  nest  is  placed,  nor 
of  the  region  in  which  it  stands,  but  he  carries  with  him 
the  image  of  this  single  rock,  as  it  stands  in  a  particular 
place,  and  noticing  no,  resemblance  between  it  and  other 
rocks,  he  would  find  it  among  thousands  of  others,  its 
peculiar  features  being  strongly  and  solely  impressed 
upon  his  eye.  The  objects  of  apperception,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  the  kind,  the  species  and  individuals  of  things. 
It  is  by  apperception,  that  man  distinguishes  between 
his  perceptions  and  the  objects  perceived;  and  again, 
that  he  classifies  nature  and  its  productions,  by  discov- 
ering the  union  in  the  greatest  variety,  as  when  he 
says":  these  bushes  are  rose-bushes  ;  and  by  distinguish- 
ing one  class  from  another,  as  pears  from  apples,  and 
these  from  peaches.  This  the  animal  can  never  do.  It 
sees,  it  perceives  the  grass,  but  it  never  arranges  it  ac- 
cording to  its  botanical  classes.  The  dog  universally 
will  pursue  the  hare,  and  it  may  seem  that  he  does  so, 
because  he  knows  this  class  of  animals,  and  distinguishes 
between  it  and  others  ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  all  hares  be- 
ing exactly  alike  in  size,  form,  and  scent,  will  produce  the 
same  sensations  in  the  dog,  and  these  will  always  set  him 
in  motion.  This  then  is  the  broad  difference,  the  chasm 
between  man  and  the  animal :  the  former  can  think^  the 
latter  cannot,  for  it  is  glehae  adscriptus.  It  lives,  but 
acquires  no  experience  ;  it  eats  its  food  daily,  but  never 
knows  what  this  food  is.  Some  indeed  have  gone  so 
far  as  to  say,  that  animals  not  only  judge,  but  draw 
conclusions  from  causes  to  effects.  To  draw  conclu- 
sions is  the  highest  power  of  human  reason,  and  if  they 
could  do  this,  they  would  be  able  to  think ^  and  to  xmll 
like  man,  and  to  have  apperceptions  like  him.  Such 
men  cannot  know  what  thinking  is,  or  what  is  to  be 
understood  by  judging  and  drawing  conclusions. 
Animals  have  no  ideaof  power,  of  capacities,  of  energy, 
of  proportions,  of  beauty,  of  truth,-  and  consequently 
none  of  cause  and  effect.  ■  None  of  these  are  visible  or 
accessible  to  the  senses,  but  only  to  thought,  which  it 
yet  remains  to  be  proved,  that  animals  possess.  The 
process  by  which  we  arrive  at  conclusions  is  simply  this. 
We  have  three  thoughts;  each  differs  from  the  other, 


-^ 


16  INTRODUCTION 

and  each  is  included  within  a  certain  limit.  But  while  all 
differ,  one  is  capable  of  uniting  the  two  others,  and  of 
removing  this  difference.  Thus  two  thoughts  are  re- 
duced to  one  class  by  a  third  one  connecting  them. 
To  make  use  of  an  example  frequently  adduced,  the 
dog  once  whipped,  fears  as  soon  as  he  sees  his  master 
take  the  cane  with  which  he  has  been  beaten  on  a  former 
occasion.  The  cane  is  one  thing,  the  master's  intention 
another,  and  the  pain  proceeding  from  the  whippings  a 
third.  Now  it  would  be  foolish  in  the  extreme,  to  say, 
that  the  dog  connects  the  idea  of  pain  with  the  cane  by 
the  intention  of  the  master'.  He  has  but  a  confused 
impression,  and  without  any  conclusions  or  judgments, 
he  darkly  connects  things  as  they  formerly  were  con- 
nected, and  anticipates  consequences,  without  being 
conscious  of  such  a  connection,  or  without  having  any 
thing  like  an  idea  of  cause  and  consequence.  Hunters, 
it  is  true,  have  many  anecdotes  about  the  acuteness  and 
ingenuity  of  animals,  as  do  sailors  voyaging  to  distant 
countries.  The  fact,  however,  is,  that  unless  their  game 
were  bound  by  the  invariable  laws  of  instinct  in  all  its 
actions,  unless  one  fox  would  dig  its  hole  as  the  other, 
and  all  stags  would  go  to  the  water,  and  seek  food 
at  regular  hours,  and  live  in  certain  places  at  different 
seasons,  the  hunters  would  not  be  able  to  entrap  them. 

Animals,  finally,  cannot  have  any  emotions  ;  neither 
joy  nor  grief,  neither  hope  nor  fear.  The  external  ex- 
pressions of  these  emotions  are  weepiiig  and  laughing, 
neither  of  which  has  as  yet  been  observed  in  animals. 
We  all  remember  from  Homer's  Iliad,  that  when  the 
noble  Patroclus,  alone  and  at  a  distance  from  his  true 
friend  Achilles,  fell  by  the  hands  of  the  Trojans,  his 
horses  shed  big  tears  and  refused  to  obey,  because  they 
missed  the  well  known  voice  of  their  beloved  master. 
But  these  tears  belong  to  poetry ;  they  are  the  tears 
which  Homer  himself  wept  at  the  death  of  the  hero 
his  fancy  had  created.  So  poetry  attributes  innocence 
to  the  lily,  because  it  is  ofthe  purest  white;  modesty  to  the 
violet,  because  it  blooms  and  exhales  its  fragrance  un- 
seen ;  love  to  the  rose,  because  the  cheeks  of  the  maiden 
blush  like  it,  when  for  the  finst  time  she  feels  this  noble 


>^  • 

INTHODUCTION.  17 

emotion.  What  is  joy  in  man,  springing  from  a  feeling 
that  connects  itself  with  some  thought,  in  animals,  is 
but  a  physical  sensation  or  bodily  pleasure,  the  agreeable 
re-action  of  the  muscles  against  some  external  influence, 
the  satisfaction  of  some  want.  And  so  what  is  grief  in 
man,  is  but  a  physical  pain,  or  suffering  in  the  animal. 
The  dog,  that  lays  himself  upon  the  grave  of  his  mas- 
ter and  remains  there  until  he  dies,  does  so  not  from  de- 
liberation and  free  choice,  but  being  forced,  by  the  chain 
of  habit,  which  he  is  unable  to  break.  Nor  do  animals 
fear  or  hope,  for  neither  the  future  nor  the  past  is  known 
to  them.  A  dark  anxiety  which  they  do  not  under- 
stand, a  confused  anticipation,  is  all  of  which  they  are 
susceptible. 


n 


CHAPTER  L 


LIFE. 

It  is  riot  my  intention,  in  this  Chapter,  to  show  what 
life  is  in  itself,  but  only  to  exhibit  some  of  its  most 
striking"  phenomena,  and  the  different  stag^es  of  its  gen- 
eral development  throughout  nature.  Thus  only  can 
we  gain  a  clear  idea  of  the  rank  occupied  by  man  among 
animated  beings.  In  the  following  three  points,  the  liv- 
ing differs  from  the  dead  or  lifeless,  the  organic  from 
the  inorganic. 

1.  Whatever  is  alive,  must  be  a  union,  a  totality  of 
many  organs  or  members,  and  so  united  with  them,  that 
they  cannot  be  separated  from  each  other,  nor  from  the 
whole,  without  being  destroyed.     The  crystal,  however 
transparent,  and  beautiful,  and  regular  in  its  form,  is  not 
alive,  for  it  is  not  an  individual  being,  nor  a  whole,  whose 
parts  are  organs  ox  members  ;  it  is  not  organized  at  all. 
The  many  forms  of  the  crystal  are  not  indeed  produced 
by  a  power  foreign  to  its  matter,  not  by  an  external  con- 
trivance, but  by  a  plastic  power,  which,  resting  in  its 
matter,  always  calls  forth  the  same  symmetrical  forms 
according  to  eternal  laws,  whenever  the  conditions  un- 
der which  it  can  be  active  are  present.     But  the  organi- 
zation of  the  whole  into  parts,  as  for  example,  that  of  the 
plant  into  trunk  and  branches,  being  wanting,  we  should 
hesitate   to   call   the  crystal  alive.     Every  one  of  its 
qualities  is  contained  in  each  particle  of  the  mineral, 
and  though  there  may  be  many  qualities,  they  are  all  of 
them  so  included  in  each  other,  that  where  the  one  is 
the  other  is  also.     Hence  there  is  no  union  of  many 
members  or  organs,  each  of  which,  while  pervaded  by 


r- 


*    V- 


ft 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

the  same  life,  has  a  particular  office;  but  the  smallest 
piece  of  the  mineral  is  as  perfect  as  the  whole.  The 
plant,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  whole,  that  contains  and 
supports  all  its  parts.  These  parts  are  not  merely  con- 
nected as  the  links  of  a  chain,  which  cannot  support  it- 
self, but  must  be  supported  by  the  nail  in  the  wall ;  they 
grow  forth  from  and  depend  on  each  other,  and  on  the 
life  of  the  whole.  Roots,  trunks,  branches,  twigs,  leaves, 
blossoms  and  fruits,  all  diifer  from  each  other  ;  each  has 
a  peculiar  office ;  each  assists  and  promotes  the  life  of 
the  whole ;  and  while  the  one  depends  on  the  other,  all  de- 
pend on  the  individual,  whose  organs  they  are.  The  leaf 
torn  from  the  branch,  loses  its  freshness,  its  sap,  its  color, 
and  withers.  The  branch,  hanging  only  by  a  few  fibers 
to  the  trunk,  is  no  longer  a  part  of  the  tree.  One  of  the 
characteristics,  therefore,  of  life,  is  that  its  parts  do  not 
merely  cohere  externally  and  mechanically,  like  those  of 
a  machine,  but  are  inseparably  connected  by  concrescence 
or  a  common  growth,  so  that  they  cannot  be  divided  with- 
out mutual  ruin.  The  iron,  divided  into  small  particles 
or  atoms  by  the  file,  still  remains  iron.  The  parts  of 
a  house,  as  they  are  heterogeneous  and  only  collected 
from  the  different  portions  of  nature,  and  then  put  to- 
gether, so  they  v/ill  remain  what  they  are,  stone,  timber, 
mortar,  and  glass,  though  they  should  be  taken  apart 
and  applied  to  another  building.  But  the  trunk  sever- 
ed from  the  root,  is  dead ;  the  hand,  lopped  from  the  arm, 
grows  black  and  decays. 

2.  The  second  characteristic  of  life  is  the  continued 
process  by  which,  whatever  lives,  preserves  itself  No 
living  individual  begins  to  be  by  the  external  union  of 
its  parts,  but  it  grows  forth  from  a  spontaneous  coales- 
cence. The  parts  do  not  exist  before  the  whole,  so  that 
nothing  would  be  necessary  to  make  the  whole,  but  add- 
ing the  one  part  to  the  other.  The  parts  of  which  the 
machine  consists  were  in  existence  before  the  machine 
.  was  made,  but  the  branches  of  the  tree  were  not  before 
the  tree  was.  Hence  the  organic  or  living  individual 
produces  all  its  parts  by  a  power  within  itself,  and  by 
this  power  it  also  preserves  itself.  In  regard  to  this 
self-preservation,  however,  a  great  difference  appears 


i 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

n  the  different  animated  beings.  The  plant  by  its  roots 
absorbs  those  elements  which  are  congenial  to  its  na- 
ture ;  it  may  therefore  be  said  to  eat  and  drink,  to  preserve 
itself.  But  the  activity  of  the  plant  is  purely  e:J^ternal. 
It  does  not  preserve  an  organism  that  may  be  said 
to  have  finished  growing,  but  by  assimilation  every 
spring,  it  produces  new  limbs,  leaves,  and  blossoms.  It 
grows  as  long  as  it  lives,  and  yet  every  new  limb  is  but 
a  repetition  of  the  original  trunk,  as  are  the  new  leaves 
of  the  old.  The  animal,  on  the  other  hand,  reaches  a 
point,  where  all  its  members  are  complete  and  full- 
grown,  and  at  this  stage  it  preserves  its  organism  by  nu- 
triment. In  the  animal,  one  limb  differs  from  the  other, 
the  nose  from  the  mouth,  the  eyes  from  the  ear,  the  legs 
from  the  body  ;  but  they  do  not  grow  in  succession,  like 
the  branches  of  the  plant,  but  contemporaneously. 
Hence  it  is  that  the  life  of  the  plant  is  merely  external  j 
it  presses  constantly  to  the  surface,  and  exhibits  itself  in 
color,  bark,  fragrance,  fruit  and  seed.  And  as  its  life,  so 
its  self-preservation  is  external,  not  felt  by  it.  The  life 
of  the  animal  is  more  internal,  it  feels  itself,  and  feels  a 
pleasure  in  preserving  its  life. 

3.  A  third  characteristic  of  life  is,  that  form  and  mat- 
ter, which  constitute  a  living  being,  are  not  brought  to- 
gether externally,  so  that  the  matter  somewhere  exists, 
and  the  form  is  given  it  by  an  external  power.  This  is 
the  case  in  art.  The  marble  exists  long  before  the  art- 
ist impresses  the  picture  of  his  imagination  upon  it.  So 
this  picture  exists  in  the  mind  of  the  artist  before  his 
chisel  carves  the  stone.  But  it  is  otherwise  in  a  living 
being.  This  grows  forth  from  an  invisible  power,  ac- 
cording to  certain,  unchangeable  laws.  This  power  on 
the  one  hand  materializes,  attracts  matter,  assumes  vol- 
ume, produces  fibers,  roots,  bark,  branches  or  nerves, 
muscles,  sinevvs,  bones,  (fcc;  on  the  other  it  is  plastic, 
giving  form  to  the  matter.  It  is  however  only  one  pow- 
er, that  acts  under  two  different  forms,  so  that  while  it 
assumes  volume,  it  at  the  same  time  changes  the  parti- 
cles received  into  that  form  in  which  alone  its  nature 
.  can  admit  them.  It  is  therefore  correct  to  say,  that  in  a 
living  being  the  matter  does  not  precede  its  form.     The 


INTRODUCTION*  21 

air  we  exhale,  is  no  longer  what  it  was  when  we  in- 
haled it ;  the  light  absorbed  by  the  plant  is  changed  into 
color,  and  consequently  does  not  exist  in  it  as  pure  light ; 
and  this  change  begins  when  the  element  is  received 
by  the  plant.  The  wormwood,  the  rosebush,  the  tube- 
rose, may  alLof  them  stand  on  the  same  soil,  receive  the 
same  moisture,  the  same  atmosphere,  and  the  same  de- 
gree of  heat,  and  consequently  live  on  the  same  elements  ; 
yet  the  different  taste  and  medical  power  of  their  sap, 
the  different  color  of  their  leaves,  the  different  fragrance 
of  their  flowers,  sufficiently  show,  that  while  the  same 
elements  enter  into  their  natare,  they  do  not  remain  the 
same,  but  are  changed  and  peculiarly  modified  by  the  form 
under  which  they  enter  into  it.  Though  the  elements 
as  such  precede  the  plant,  it  is  nevertheless  the  plastic 
power  of  the  plant  that  converts  them  into  its  constitu- 
ent parts.  The  light  flows  into  the  eye  of  the  mole  no 
less  than  into  that  of  the  eagle,  but  it  exists  in  the  one 
as  it  does  not  in  the  other  ;  there  is  a  specific  difference 
between  the  contents  of  the  eye  of  the  eagle  and  that  of 
the  mole. 

From  these  remarks  it  must  be  manifest,  that  the  va- 
rious forms  of  life  do  not  proceed  from  dead  matter,  nor 
from  chance  or  any  blind  impulse,  but  that  they  are 
fashioned  by  a  plastic  power  placed  in  matter  by  the 
divine  will,  and  that  this  is  the  power  which  upholds 
the  species  and  individuals,  and  universally  produces 
the  same  forms  according  to  the  same  unchangeable 
laws.  This  power  ,then,  is  the  very  soul  of  life,  and  the 
question  is,  What  can  ice  knoio  concerning-  it  ? 


OF  THE  PLASTIC  POWER; 

Or  the  principle  of  all  individual  life. 

We  daily  see  thousands  of  beings  begin  to  be  ;  we 
see  them  arise  from  the  ground  of  ttie  earth,  from  seeds 
and  sprouts,  and  eggs  in  the  water  and  on  the  conti- 
nent, on  the  soil  and  in  the  air.     Each  new  being  bears 


4 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

the  form  of  the  species  to  which  it  belongs,  and  though 
favorable  or  unfavorable  influences  may  render  this 
form  more  or  less  perfect,  no  external  power  can  change 
its  specific  character.  From  the  seed  universally  will 
proceed  the  form  of  the  plant  from  which  the  seed  was 
produced,  and  leaves  and  branches,  roots  and  trunk, 
blossom  and  fruit,  may  be  anticipated  with  all  certainty. 
There  is,  it  must  be  admitted,  a  type,  which  precedes 
the  opening  and  growing  being,  and  which  fashions  it 
with  so  unchangeable  a  necessity,  that  the  individuals 
of  any  species  have  continued  nearly  the  same  in  size 
and  form,  in  nature  and  qualities,  ever  since  the  creation 
of  the  world.  This  cannot  be  owing  to  accidental  cir- 
cumstances ;  nor  can  form  emerge  from  chaotic  matter, 
nor  life  from  death,  nor  light  from  darkness,  nor  the  or- 
ganic from  the  inorganic.  The  theory  of  Thales, 
therefore,  \<rho  made  water  the  mother  of  all  life,  or  the 
Aristotelian  hypothesis  of  a  generatio  aequivoca  in  op- 
position to  a  generatio  sexualis,  could  no  longer  stand, 
even  if  Redi's  experiments  had  been  less  decisive.  This 
hypothesis  considered  matter  as  possessed  of  power  to 
produce  the  various  forms  of  life.  We  see  worms  and 
insects  generated  in  decaying  flesh;  mushrooms  and 
other  plants  make  their  appearance  in  the  different  por- 
tions of  the  earth,  wherever  soil  and  climate  are  favora- 
ble to  them.  Certain  plants  are  always  found  around 
^jsalt  springs  and  nowhere  else;  ihe 'pinus  pumilis  is 
Wmet  with  on  the  top  of  the  Silesian  mountains,  and 
again  on  the  Carpathian ;  how  could  these  plants  be 
found  so  uniformly  under  the  same  circumstances,  if  the 
same  qualities  of  matter  did  not  always  produce  the 
same  forms  of  life  ?  So  we  discover,  in  the  intestines  of 
animals,  worms  which  differ  specifically/  according  to 
th«  different  parts  in  which  they  are  found,  so  that  they 
cannot  have  been  generated  by  such  as  might  have 
been  swallowed  in  water.  Thus  the  theory.  Redi,  how 
ever,  by  his  simple  yet  ingenious  experiment,  com- 
pletely refuted  it.  He  filled  three  pots  with  flesh  and 
exposed  them  to  the  sun.  One  of  these  pots  he  sealed  up 
tightly,  another  he  covered  merely  with  paper,  and  the 
third  he  left  open.    Upon  examining  all  of  them,  ha 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

discovered  that  the  one  left  open  was  filled  with  in- 
sects, the  second,  covered  with  paper,  exhibited  but  a 
few,  and  the  third  none  at  all.  But  suppose  insects 
could  originate  from  matter,  could  the  larger  animals, 
the  horse  and  the  stag,  the  zebra  and  cameleopard,  and 
above  all,  man,  take  their  rise  from  it  ?  And  if  they 
could,  by  what  power  of  matter  ?  From  the  time  of 
Redi,  the  proverb  of  the  celebrated  Harvey,  that  every 
being  originates  from  seed  or  eg^s,  o?nne  animal  ex 
ovoj  became  daily  more  acceptable ;  yet  '  whether  I 
examine  with  the  microscope  the  germ  in  the  acorn,  or 
whether  I  view  the  oak  of  a  hundred  years,  I  am  equally 
far  from  its  origin.'  The  seed  is  already  the  product 
of  a  plastic  power,  which  formed  it,  as  it  must  produce 
the  form  that  shall  grow  forth  from  the  seed.  The 
Greek  question — whether  the  egg  was  before  the  hen  or 
the  hen  before  the  egg,  would  likewise  present  itself. 
The  egg  is  the  chicken  in  possibility^  and  the  chicken 
is  the  realized  possibility  which  was  contained  in  the 
egg.  All  the  diiferent  and  many  hypotheses  on  the  ori- 
gin of  individual  life,  gave  way  to  that  which  was  called 
the  theory  of  involution,  or  theoria  preformationis. 
This  asserted  that  all  forms  exist  from  the  beginning  of 
the  world,  only  infinitely  small,  all  of  them  preformed,  the 
one  included  in  the  other,  and  many  millions  of  germs 
in  one.  Growth  is  nothing  else  than  evolution  or  en- 
largement of  these  preformed  germs.  This  theory  was 
supported  by  many  strange  arguments ;  but  however 
well  supported  it  might  have  been,  it  transferred  the 
difiiculty  in  question  only  from  one  place  to  another. 
For  whether  I  view  the  tree  in  its  full  size  or  in  its  in- 
finitely small  preformation,  here  as  well  as  there  I  see 
it  already  formed,  and  must  ask,  whence  these  forms  ? 
When  we,  however  carefully,  and  by  the  most  accurate 
instruments,  examine  the  egg  of  a  butterfly,  we  cannot 
discover  any  thing  except  a  white  fluid,  which  is  of  the 
same  color  and  substance  in  all  its  parts,  and  fills  a 
small,  round,  simple  cover.  Nothing  can  be  seen  as  yet 
of  the  body  of  the  butterfly,  nothing  of  its  beautifully 
colored  wings,  nothing  of  its  proboscis,  which  the  future 
fly  will  thrust  into  the  cups  of  flowers,  nothing  of  it& 


tP^" 


24  INTRODtJCTION. 

-  limbs  and  many  eyes.  And  yet  the  possibility  of  pro- 
ducing all  of  them,  slumbers  in  the  es^g,  and  no  sooner 
is  it  exposed  to  the  necessary  and  favorable  conditions,- 
than  an  invisible  power  will  develop  member  after 
member  in  this  simple  and  identical  fluid.  The  cele- 
brated Blumenbach,  who  for  a  long  time  had  taught  this 
theory  of  involution,  was  accidentally  led  to  discover  its 
fallacy,  and  to  s.tart  one  which  will  be  found  of  much 
greater  importance  to  our  subject  than  any  former  one. 
While  spending  a  part  of  a  vacation  in  the  country,  he 
met  with  a  green  armpolypous  in  a  rivulet.  He  muti- 
lated it  repeatedly,  and  whenever  he  cwt  off  a  part,  the 
whole  animal  would  become  thin  for  a  time,  and  an  ef- 
fort to  reproduce  the  lost  part  became  evident.  On  the 
second  or  third  day,  tails,  arms,  and  other  mutilated 
parts  were  fully  grown  again.     Soon  after,  he  had  to 

■  attend  upon  a  man,  from  one  of  whose  limbs  had  to 
,^  be  cut  a  large  portion  of  flesh  ;  the  wound  soon  healed, 
,^  and  the  system  directly  showed  a  tendency  to  cover  the 
cavity.  When  these  phenomena  were  brought  in  con- 
nection with  others, — for  example,  that  the  feelers  of. 
snails,  when  cut  off",  or  the  limbs  of  spiders,  when  lost, 
are  soon  restored  again,— it  could  not  but  strike  him,  that 
all  living  beings  carry  in  themselves  a  plastic  power, 
from  which  not  only  they  themselves  proceed,  but 
which  has  a  tendency  to  produce  and  to  preserve  those 
forms  which  are  essential  to  them.     It  is  not  the  germ 

in  the  seed,  from  which  the  plant  originates.  This  germ 
is  already  of  a  visible  and  decided  form,  the  result  of  the 
flower.     In  the  flower  we  may  discover  a  whitish,  glo- 

,  bular  fluid,  which  as  the  flower  unfolds  itself,  and  final- 
ly fades  away,  becomes  more  solid,  and  when  ripe,  is 
thrown  off"  from  the  mother^plant  as  seed.  In  this  seed 
is  contained  the  germ,  the  first  formation  of  the  future 
plant,  as  roots  and  leaves  naay  be  considered  the  second 
and  third  formations.  Whence  then  is  the  germ? 
It  is  the  product  of  a  'plastic  power ,  which  is  the  prin- 
ciple of  individual  life  and  its  preservation,  which  forms 
in  the  plant  the  seed,  the  fibers  and  the  roots,  the 
leaves  and  the  branches  ;  which  makes  the  roots  seek  for 
moisture,  and  the  leaves  for  the  air,  and  the  flower  for  the 


INTRODUCTION.  26 

light  of  the  sun,  and  which  will  confine  the  form  of 
each  individual  to  its  species,  so  that  the  seed  of  the 
palm-tree  will  never  grow  up  and  become  an  oak 
tree,  nor  the  acorn  grow  up  a  palm-tree. 

This  plastic  power  reigns  wherever  there  is  life ; 
whether  it  be  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean,  where  it  works 
secretly  and  unseen,  or  in  the  cavities  of  the  earth, 
where  it  mysteriously  forms  the  salamander  and  dragon, 
or  in  the  bud  and  blossoms  of  the  plant,  which  it 
clothes  with  beaut}'-,  or  in  the  sensations  and  perceptions 
of  animals,  in  which  the  light  of  intellect  seems  to 
dawn.  It  can  no  more  be  seen  with  the  eye,  than 
any  other  power.  But  as  we  conclude  from  effects  as  to 
causes,  so  we  conclude  here  from  the  products  as  to  the 
power  that  produces  them.  These  products  are  the 
forms  of  individual  life,  and  consequently  we  must  admit 
a  plastic  power.  To  the  thinking  and  observing  man, 
its  existence  is  no  less  certain  than  the  sound  that  falls 
upon  his  ear,  or  the  dazzling  light  that  is  reflected  upon 
his  eyes.  The  necessity  of  admitting  and  knowing 
this  plastic  power,  will  appear  more  fully  when  we  con- 
sider separately  the  principal  phenomena  that  cannot 
be  explained  without  it.     They  are, 

First,  a  living  motion.  When  we  compare  the  dif- 
ferent possible  motions  with  each  other,  we  cannot  but 
acknowledge  a  great  difference  between  them  as  to  their 
cause.  The  merely  mechanical  motion,  that  like  the 
ball  rolling  from  place  to  place,  changes  only  its  locali- 
ty, is  universally  caused  by  a  power  not  contained  in 
the  object  in  motion,  but  by  one  that  is  external  to  it. 
The  ball  on  the  billiard  table,  struck  by  the  rod,  will  roll 
on  until  the  impulse  given  it  has  exhausted  itself.  The 
arrow,  shot  from  the  bow,  is  set  in  motion  by  a  power 
which  does  not  rest  in  it,  and  which  gives  it  the  direction 
it  takes.  All  mechanical  motion  so  wholly  depends  on  an 
external  cause,  that  where  this  ceases,  it  must  likewise 
stop.  The  cannon  ball,  discharged  into  the  air,  cannot  con- 
tinue to  rise,  ad  injinitiiin^  but  must  sink  back  upon  the 
earth  in  a  parabolic  line.  With  chimical  motion  it  is 
somewhat  otherwise.  Its  cause  is  contained  in  the  pe- 
culiar relation  or  affinity  of  two  bodies  to  each  other;  each 

4 


26 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  which  pre-siipposes  in  the  other,  what  is  wanting  in 
itself.  Iron  filings  and  vitriolic  acid,  put  together,  will  af- 
fect and  set  each  other  into  motion,  the  result  of  which 
will  be  the  production  of  a  third  body.  Mechanical 
motion  leaves  a  body  as  it  found  it,  but  chimical  mo- 
tion eifects  an  entire  change.  Again,  when  we  see  the 
seed  of  a  plant,  sown  in  a  favorable  soil,  and  exposed  to 
the  light,  swell  and  move,'  the  motion,  though  depend- 
ent on  proper  conditions,  is  not  caused  by  a  power  with- 
out, but  by  one  within  the  seed,  and  the  effect  is  not  a 
new  chimical  combination,  but  a  living  body,  growing 
out  from  within.  We  may  observe  the  same,  when  we 
compare  the  motion  of  an  infusorium  with  any  other 
merely  mechanical  loco-motion.  The  lowest  class  of 
animals,  which  are  so  small  that  five  thousand  millions 
may  live  in  one  drop  of  water,  and  that  can  only 
be  rendered  visible  by  a  microscope,  magnifying  one 
hundred  times,  which  indeed  have  only  become  known 
since  the  invention  of  Leuwenhoek's  microscope  and 
may  be  produced  by  pouring  water  upon  decaying  sub- 
stances {infundere^  infiisorium\  are  called  infusoria. 
They  are,  according  to  natural  historians,  mere  living 
points,  atoms  that  eat  and  drink,  but  have  no  organized 
bodies.  And  yet  these  living  atoms  have  a  motion  of 
their  own.  The  feather,  that  floats  in  the  air,  the  dust 
that  is  raised  by  the  attraction  of  light,  the  piece  of  wood 
that  swims  down  the  river,  are  all  carried  and  moved  by 
the  elements,  in  which  they  are  ;  but  these  little,  living 
animals,  move  with  or  against  the  current,  and  in  what- 
ever direction  they  choose.  Their  motions,  therefore, 
depend  not  on  any  thing  external,  but  on  a  power  with- 
in themselves,  strong  enough  to  resist  the  current  of  the 
air. 

Secondly,  a  separation  of  the  living  being  from  the 
element  in  which  it  is  born.  The  drop  of  water  that 
flows  along  in  a  river,  is  not  separated  in  any  way  from 
the  element  of  which  it  forms  a  part.  The  single  grain 
of  sand  is  separated  from  all  other  grains,  but  it  is  not 
Separated  by  its  own  innate  power,  for  it  is  not  alive. 
When,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  plant  a  globular  fluid  is 
formed,  and  when  this  fluid  at  length  hardens  and  in  the 


INTRODUCTION.  ^  27 

form  of  seed  by  its  own  activity,  thrusts^  itself  forth  or 
falls  from  the  mother-plant,  we  must  conclude  that 
there  is  a  simple,  secretly-working  power,  causing  the 
fluid— which  originally  is  a  part  of  the  plant,  and  in  as 
close  a  contact  with  it  as  a  drop  of  water  with  its  volume, 
— to  separate  itself  and  constitute  a  being  of  its  own. 
This  is  the  case  with  the  piincttim  saliens  in  the  ani- 
mal, and  with  all  living  bemgs  throughout  nature.  All 
commence  in  such  a  simple  activity,  all  begin  to  move, 
and  to  grow  forth  from  it  and  receive  members  and 
form  by  it.  Through  it,  the  being  that  is  active,  is  ac- 
tive in  reference  to  itself  Whatever  is,  must  be  active, 
either  with  reference  to  itself  or  to  something  else. 
When  the  blacksmith  suffers,  instead  of  the  iron,  merely 
its  shadow  to  fall  upon  the  anvil,  and  strikes  it  with  his 
hammer,  the  shadow  cannot  be  aflected,  because  it  is 
inactive,  the  mere  picture  of  death.  But  when  instead 
of  the  shadow,  the  iron  is  placed  upon  the  anvil,  it  will 
stretch  itself  out  under  the  heavy  strokes  of  the  hammer. 
It  is  active,  yet  not  for  itself,  but  only  for  the  hammer. 
The  sun,  that  shines  upon  the  sand  and  heats  it,  is  ac- 
tive, yet  not  for  itself,  but  for  something  else ;  the  sand, 
that  is  heated  and  perhaps  converted  into  glass,  is  active 
likewise,  but  not  for  itself  either,  but  fox  some  other  pur- 
poses. The  germ,  on  the  other  hand,  that  under  the 
mild  influence  of  sweet  moisture  and  of  a  genial  warmth, 
begins  to  move,  to  swell,  to  break  the  cover  and  to 
sprout,  is  not  active  for  any  thing  else,  but  for  itself; 
for  the  result  of  its  activity  is  its  formation  as  a  plant. 
As  such  it  preserves  itself,  breathes,  eats  and  drinks 
with  its  roots  and  leaves.  By  the  simple  activity  in 
question,  therefore,  a  living  being  begins  to  exist  as  an 
individual ;  as  such  it  is  related  to  itself  in  all  its  parts  ; 
branches  and  twigs,  roots  and  trunk,  are  all  of  them  re- 
lated to  each  other,  and  their  union  is  the  plant  or  the 
individual  life,  whose  organs  they  are. 

Thirdly,  a  specific  form.  This  originally  simple 
power  or  activity,  contains  the  possibility  of  producing 
such  forms,  as  the  prototype  of  a  genus  necessarily  de- 
mands. When  we  observe  an  egg^  from  which  the  fu- 
ture young  is  to  come  forth,  we  are  forced  to  admit  this 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

possibility.  At  first,  nothing  is  visible  but  the  fluid  ;  af- 
terwards a  beating  point  is  seen  ;-  soon  the  heart  begins 
to  have  pulsation  ;  the  blood  to  become  red  ;  the  head 
makes  its  appearance  ;  eyes,  mouth,  and  members  shoot 
forth.  Limbs,  as  yet  slender  as  the  threads  of  a  cobweb, 
wtngs,  toes,  and  feet  become  visible.  The  being  in  a  state 
of  formation,  already  sleeps  and  wakes,  moves  and  rests. 
It  seeks  light,  and  without  assistance  opens  the  shell. 
Is  here  no  form-giving  power?  Must  not  this  power 
have  in  itself  the  type  of  the  formation  which  it  is 
to  produce,  and  is  it  not  correct  therefore  to  say,  that  it 
contains  the  possibility  of  producing  specific  forms  ? 
This  possibility  is  not  a  mere  fiction  of  our  fancy,  it  is  a 
physical  possibility,  that  when  all  the  conditions  are 
present,  must  pass  over  into  reality.  As  the  forms,  pro- 
ceeding from  this  possibility,  cannot  be  accidental,  but 
must  all  of  them  represent  their  prototype,  or  the  image 
which  seems  to  slumber  in  that  originally  simple  ac- 
tivity, this  possibility  or  plastic  power  has  been  called 
nisus  formativus.  By  nisus  is  indicated  the  ten- 
^dency  of  a  power  to  effect  a  certain,  definite  object.  By 
formativus  is  to  be  understood  the  quality  of  the  ob- 
ject, its  forrn  and  whole  organism.  There  is  no  such 
tendency  in  lines,  to  form  a  circle  or  a  triangle,  but  there 
is  one  in  the  acorn,  when  sown,  to  form  an  oak-tree. 

It  is  the  same  power  too,  that  forms  the  being,  which 
preserves  it..  No  sooner  is  the  young  born,  than  all  the 
functions  of  this  power  are  in  operation.  The  mouth 
opens  itself,  the  lungs  breathe,  the  stomach  digests,  and 
the  lips  seek  their  food.  Leaves  fall  every  autumn, 
but  every  spring  adorns  the  trees  with  new  ones.  It  is 
this  power  that  causes  a  wound  to  heal,  and  that  in  in- 
ferior animals,  restores  lost  limbs.  Not  the  individual 
only,  however,  is  thus  preserved  by  it — for  sooner  or 
later  it  must  decay — but  after  it  has  fully  formed  and 
matured  the  individual,  it  takes  care  by  it  of  the  genus, 
and  becomes  a  tendency  of  propagation.  The  period, 
when  it  takes  this  different  direction,  is  indicated  ex- 
ternally. The  muscles  swell  rounder  and  fuller,  the 
face  blooms,  and  vigor  and  feeling  of  a  youthful  fresh- 
ness is  spread  through  the  whole  body. 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

It  is  remarkable  that  this  plastic  power,  the  princi- 
pal phenomena  of  which  we  have  considered,  deter- 
mines also  the  motions  of  the  organs,  and  the  use  to  be 
made  of  them.  It  causes  the  sap  to  rise  and  to  sink  in 
the  plant,  the  branches  to  extend  themselves  towards 
the  light,  the  roots  to  move  from  the  center  towards  the 
nourishing  moisture,  and  the  leaves  to  expand,  and 
contract  in  proportion  as  the  cellular  textures  are  filled 
with  juice.  So  the  stamina  of  many  plants  move  of 
their  own  accord,  as  soon  as  they  are  formed ;  the  cups 
of  others  close  when  the  sun  sets,  as  those  of  many 
tulips ;  others  shut  their  leaves  when  a  storm  threat- 
ens, as  the  Scotch  sycamore,  and  others  again  sink  in- 
to the  water  when  the  sun  sinks,  and  re-appear  when  it 
rises,  as  the  lotos.  The  light  may  act  here  by  way  of 
excitement,  but  cannot  act  as  the  sole  cause ;  and  as 
plants  have  no  sensations  and  perceptions,  these  motions 
must  be  attributed  to  this  plastic  power,  as  the  motions 
in  the  lips  of  the  new-born  child  proceed  from  it. 

More  instructive,  and  more  to  our  purpose,  however, 
are  some  phenomena,  which  we  observe  exclusively  in 
the  animal  world.  Here  all  the  productions  of  the  plas- 
tic power  are  more  perfect  and  more  regular.  They  are 
more  perfect ;  for  if  we  compare  the  most  beautiful  flow- 
er with  the  eye,  the  latter  will  strike  us  at  once  as  being 
infinitely  more  artisiical  and  complete.  They  are  more 
regular ;  for  the  animal  has  but  two  lungs,  but  two  eyes, 
but  two  ears,  while  the  plant  has  thousands  of  leaves,  and 
buds,  and  flowers.  The  more  nearly  animals  are  allied 
to  the  vegetable  world,  the  greater  will  be  the  number  of 
their  limbs ;  some  reptiles  have  more  than  one  hundred 
feet ; — yet  the  number  of  limbs  in  any  is  no  longer  left 
indefinite,  as  in  the  plant,  but  determined  by  the  species. 
And  as  this  power  in  animals  becomes  more  perfect 
and  regular,  so  it  assumes  a  higher  character.  When 
we  see  the  vine  seek  with  its  tendrils  the  large  tree, 
and  when  we  see  them  wind  themselves  around  it,  we 
at  once  attribute  these  motions  to  that  power  by  which 
the  plant  grows.  But  not  so  when  we  see  that  the  tor- 
toise, hatched  by  the  sun  a  mile  from  the  shore,  no  soon- 
er leaves  the  shell,  than  it  runs  without-a  guide,  in  ^ 


-      *  %,      ■    - 

30  INTRODUCTION. 

Straight  line  to  the  ocean,  or  when  we  see  ducks  hatch- 
ed by  a  hen,  not  hstening  to  her  clucking,  plunge  into  the 
water,  and  without  having  learned  to  swim,  enjoy  this 
element  with  innate  skill,  or  when  we  see  the  ox  select 
two  hundred  and  seventy-six  herbs  for  his  food,  but  uni- 
versally shun  two  hundred  and  eighteen,  though  he  nev- 
er studied  botany.  The  sphex  fahulosa,  before  laying 
her  eggs,  hollows  out  a  little  cell  for  every  one  ;  then 
fetches  half-killed  spiders,  drags  one  into  each  cell,  and 
lays  her  eggs  on  them,  so  that  the  future  young  ones  may 
not  want  for  food.  The  mining  spider  digs  a  channel  into 
the  earth,  about  two  feet  deep,  and  closes  it  very  artificial- 
ly by  a  trap-door.  This  door  is  round,  formed  of  different 
,  layers  of  earth,  ^hich  are  held  together  by  threads  ;  its 
"outside  is  rough,  but  the  inside  smooth  and  lined  with  a 
thick  texture,  from  the  upper  part  of  which,  threads  run 
to  the  surface  of  the  channel,  so  that  the  door  hangs  on  a 
string,  and  falls  by  its  own  weight  into  a  fold  as  accurate- 
ly as  if  the  whole  had  been  effected  by  mathematical 
skill.  This  door  the  spider  has  the  skill  to  keep  shut  by 
its  bodily  exertions,  when  an  enemy  tries  to  open  it. 
When  we  see  such  phenomena,  we  must  admit  a  far 
higher  agency  than  that  which  works  and  livesin  plants, 
and  this  higher  agency  is  instinct, 

INSTIJTOT.  . 

What  comparative  anatomy  is  for  the  study  of  the 
anatomy  of  man,  that,  instinct  and  an  investigation  of  its 
nature  is  for  the  study  of  Mental  Philosophy.  With- 
in its  sphere  we  discover  phenomena  that  are  full 
of  design  and  calculation,  and  yet  reason  being  want- 
ing, will  and  self-consciousness  being  entirely  absent, 
we  cannot  attribute  these  designs  to  animals,  but  must 
ascribe  them  to  him  who  works  by  eternal  laws  through 
their  instinct.  The  physiologist  finds  it  necessary,  in 
order  to  understand  fully  the  different  organs  of  man, 
to  compare  them  with  those  of  animals.  He  must  trace 
them  from  their  first  indications  in  the  lower  classes  of 
animals,  through  all  their  different  gradations  up  to 
man.    He  thus  will  discover  the  importance  of  each 


INTRODUCTION.  Bi\ 

part,  by  perceiving  what  degree  of  sight  or  hearing 
those  parts  of  the  eye  or  the  ear  afford,  which  are  met  with 
in  animals  that  have  not  those  organs  perfectly  form- 
ed. So  it  is  useful  to  the  Mental  philosopher  to  cast 
a  glance  upon  the  development  of  psychological  powers 
in  nature  below  man.  There  are  animals  that  consist 
of  a  single  organ,  which,  while  in  its  connection  with  a 
complicated  organism  in  man,  it  is  subordinate  to  higher 
ones,  is  the  only  one  in  them  or  at  least  prevails  over 
the  few  others  that  they  may  possess.  In  viewing  such 
a  being,  we  may  see  what  kind  of  life  a  single  organ 
is  capable  of  producing,  and  what  its  share  must  be  in  the 
constitution  of  man.  So  we  know,  that  in  muscles  and 
snails,  the  liver  and  heart  alone  are  fully  formed  ;  in 
many  insects  the  wind-pipe;  in  others  the  lungs;  in 
the  polypous,  the  stomach ;  in  infusoria  the  gut. 
Nature,  according  to  this  view,  contains  all  the  parts  of 
man,  but  not  as  man  has  them..  In  the  lowest  animals, 
single  parts  are  sufficient  to  form  the  whole  being ; 
more  of  them  become  united  at  the  higher  stages  of  ani- 
mal life,  until  finally  all  appear  well-proportioned  in  man, 
the  tree,  whose  leaves  are  scattered  throughout  nature ; 
and  as  a  machine  can  be  kiiown  only  when  its  parts  are 
viewed  singly,  so  man  can  be  understood  only,  when 
we  are  acquainted  with  the  inferior  tribes  in  nature, 
which  present  to  our  inspection  the  different  parts  com- 
posing his  system.  Thus  it  is  likewise  with  the  psy- 
chological life  of  man.  In  viewing  the  nature  of  in- 
stinct we  may  see  what  kind  of  mental  life  sensation 
and  perception,  independent  of  reason  and  will,  are  able 
to  produce,  and  thus  we  may  learn  how  to  value  reason 
and  will  as  we  should.  It  is  not  the  identity,  but  the  dif- 
ference, not  the  sameness  but  comparison,  from  which 
we  may  learn  most,  and  whenever  in  a  science  we  have 
gained  a  prominent  point  adapted  to  exhibit  these  differ- 
ences, it  will  be  well  for  us  to  pause  for  a  moment  over  it. 
Such  points  are  for  science^  what  mountains  are  for 
travelers,  who  desire  to  observe  a  country.  They  will 
see  more,  when  standing  on  mountain-tops,  than  any 
where  else.  The  nature  of  plastic  power  in  the  vege- 
table world,  and  that  of  instinct  in  animals,  will  accord- 


32  INTRODUCTION. 

ingly  teach  us  more  concerning  Psychplogy-j  than  any 
other  portion  of  human  science. 

The  different  general  phenomena  of  instinct  have  been 
arranged  by  the  celebrated  Reimarus,  in  no  less  than  fif- 
ty-eight different  classes.  It  will  be  sufficient  for  the 
present  purpose,  to  mention  only  a  few.  Animals,  from 
.  the  time  of  their  birth,  move  with  perfect  skill  from  one 
place  to  another,  and  use  all, their  limbs  iii  a  perfectly 
correct  manner,  and  for  the  right  purpose,  without  hav- 
ing received  instruction.  So  the  squirrel  uses  its  fore- 
paws  at  once  properly ;  so  the  fish  swims  without  teach- 
ing. Amphibious  animals  will  move  from  one  ele- 
ment into  the  other ;  and  birds, insects,  fishes,  and  even, 
quadrupeds  will  seek,  and  unerringly  find,  distant  coun- 
tries, in  order  to  enjoy  the  degree  of  heat  or  cold  favor- 
able to  their  constitutions.  Other  animals  bury  them- 
selves when  winter  approaches.  All  animals  select 
their  food  not  only  skillfully,  but  also  seek  it  in  the  pro- 
per places,  at  the  proper  season,  and  at  the  proper  time, 
by  day  or  night;  many  are  extremely  cunning  in  catch- 
ing their  prey,  and  in  laying  up  provision  for  inclement 
seasons ;  others  know  how  to  heal  their  wounds,  how 
to  erect  dwellings  for  themselves,  how  to  defend  them- 
selves from  their  enemies  either  by  houses,  as  the  bea- 
ver, or  by  regular  wars,  as  some  species  of  ants.  All 
these  phenomena  of  instinct,  however,  may  be  reduced 
to  three  great  classes,  one  of  which  will  compre- 
hend all  those  that  have  reference  to  the  nutrition j 
another  those  referring  to  the  ?notio7i,  and  the  third 
those  relating  to  ihe  propagation  of  auimalsj  for  the  end 
of  all  instinct  is  the  preservation  of  the  individual  and 
of  the  race. 

Instinct  pre-supposes,  what  is  not  found  in  the  sphere 
of  vegetation,  sensation  and  perception  ;  and  while  the 
plastic  power  of  the  vegetable  Idngdom  extends  also  to 
the  animal,  instinct  is  confined  to  such  beings  as  can 
feel.  The  plant  grows  and  ripens,  but  it  would  be  im- 
proper to  say,  except  poetically,  that  it  sleeps,  or  that  it  is 
fatigued,  hungry  and  thirsty.  It  is  true,  that  plants 
hang  their  leaves  when  they  suffer  from  want  of  mois- 
ture J  that,  like  the  lotus  ornithopedioidcs,  which  folds 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

its  ffowers  at  night  and  opens  them  again  in  the  morn- 
ing, they  seem  to  sleep,  yet .  when  all  is  well  investigat- 
ed, we  shall  discover  that  we  speak  but  metaphorically 
of  the  sleep  of  plants.  Fpr  as  they  are  never  awake, 
so  they  cannot  properly  be  said  to  sleep.  But  hunger 
and  thirst,  a  tendency  for  motion  and  rest,  and  for  the 
propagation  of  the  race,  are  the  peculiar  phenomena  of 
instinct,  which  we  shall  now  investigate. 

It  is  natural  to  every  living  being  to  sustain  itself  by 
food.  But  neither  man  nor  animals  would  think  of 
taking  nourishment,  did  not  the  system  and  operation 
of  digestion  force  them  to  do  so.  When  by  exercise  or 
atmospheric  influence,  digestion  is  regularly  promoted, 
the  stomach  will  become  empty,  and  the  gastric  juice 
will  gather.  The  power  of  this  juice  will  seek  some- 
thing to  act  upon,  and  finding  no  food,  it  will  attack  the 
coats  of  the  stomach.  If  no  food  is  administered,  the 
stomach  will  make  an  attempt  by  contractions  to  re- 
move this  juice,  and  not  succeeding  in  this,  death  is 
inevitable.  It  is  the  nature  of  instinct, — Ist,  To  feel  the 
pain  thus  caused  by  the  activity  of  this  gastric  juice, 
and  to  feel  the  danger  of  destruction.  This  feeling  it- 
self is  of  course  painful,  and  is  generally  called  hunger, 
— 2d,  Instinct,  as  hunger,  will  impel  the  animal  to  at- 
tack the  world  around  and  seek  for  food.  This 
appears  already  from  the  connection  of  hunger  and 
an  irresistible  tendency  to  motion.  The  horse  stamps 
when  hungry,  and  were  it  not  chained,  it  would  go 
in  search  of  food.  The  boa  constrictor  is  constantly 
active  when  in  want  of  food,  but  as  soon  as  its  hunger 
is  satisfied,  it  lies  sluggishly  down  and  may  be  chased 
by  a  child. — 3d,  Instinct  will  direct  the  animal  to  its 
proper  food,  and  no  sooner  is  this  perceived  by  the  par- 
ticular sense  that  prevails  in  the  animal  and  stands  in 
the  service  of  instinct,  than  a  prophetic  feeling  of  plea- 
sure will  at  once  induce  the  animal  to  seize  upon  it. 
Hence  it  is,  that  the  sheep,  without  choice  or  considera- 
tion, will  select  salt  from  amongst  arsenic,  which  would 
be-  impossible  to  man.  Instinct  then  is,  on  the  one 
hand,  a  feeling  of  want,  and  on  the  other,  a  feeling  of  the 
sympathy  existing  between  this  want,  arid  the  objects  by 

5 


Ik 


34  INTRODUCTION. 

which  it  is  to  be  satisfied.  This  sympathy  expresses  it- 
self ill  the  animal  by  the  pleasure  it  feels  on  perceivings 
its  proper  food. 

If  it  were  necessary  to  illustrate  the  nature  of  instinct, 
a  number  of  examples  might  be  given.  Analogous  to 
it  is  the  attractive  power  in  the  magnet,  which  from 
among  many  thousand  grains  of  different  substances,  at- 
tracts none  but  iron  filings.  So  we  see  animals  of  im- 
perfect formations,  confined  to  one  single  food,  which  • 
they  select  from  among  many  different  materials.  The 
fact,  however,  that  instinct  pre-supposes  feeling,  sensa- 
tion, and  perception,  raises  it  above  the  power  in  the  mag- 
net, and  gives  it  a  higher  character  than  that  of  the  root 
which  also  seeks  and  finds  its  nourishment.  And  how 
can  it  be  supposed  that  instinct  is  rather  an  intelligent 
power,  than  that  it  is  a  sympathy  between  the  whole  na- 
ture of  the  animal  and  the  objects  which  are  congenial  to 
it  ?  Especially  when  we  consider  that  the  ox  eats  two 
hundred  and  seventy-six  herbs,  but  rejects  two  hun- 
dred and  eighteen ;  that  the  goat  finds  four  hundred 
and  forty-nine  palatable,  but  feels  averse  to  one  hundred 
and  twenty-six  ;  the  sheep,  three  hundred  and  eighty- 
seven,  not  touching  one  hundred  and  forty-one  ;  the 
horse,  two  hundred  and  sixty-two,  leaving  two  hun- 
dred and  twelve  untasted.  When  we  consider,  too, 
that  they  not  only  distinguish  different  herbs,  but 
that  with  the  same  readiness  they  discover  their 
food,  tho\igh  it  should  be  under  ground.  The  rein- 
deer lays  itself  down,  scrapes  away  the  deep  snow 
with  its  horn,  and  its  fore-feet,  and  finds  its  aliment.  Do 
these  animals  do  so  from  a  knowledge  of  these  herbs, 
and  of  the  locality  favorable,  to  their  growth,  or  from  a 
sympathetic  relation  between  themselves  and  their  food  ? 
Animals  are  certainly  not  mere  machines,  as  Descartes 
maintained,  but  neither  are  they  thinking  beings,  as 
many  sensualists  would  like  us  to  believe.  Their  life 
is  confined  to  sensation  and  perception,  and  all  their  ac- 
tivity proceeds  not  from  will^  but  from  a  feeling  of  pain 
or  pleasure. 


\ 


INTRODUCTION,  35 


:  OF  THE  INGENUITY  OF  AMMALS. 

I  hope,  however,  to  throw  still  more  light  upon  this 
interesting  topic,  by  considering  some  productions  of 
animals  which  seem  to  manifest  ingenuity.  Of  this 
kind,  are  all  those  that  on  the  one  hand,  answer  as 
means  for  a  certain  purpose  ;  for  example,  the  web,  by 
which  the  spider  catches  his  prey,  flies  and  insects,  as 
skillfully  as  the  fisher  entraps  in  his  net  the  inhabitants 
of  the  rivers.  Wherever  we  perceive  an  adaptation  of 
means  to  the  end,  there  we  allow  ingenuity  to  be  ac- 
tive. On  the  other  hand,  they  must  be  separate  from 
the  animal  that  produced  them.     The  shell  of  the  snail,  ^^ 

that  of  the  tortoise,  and  of  the  armadilla,  are  very  artist- 
like and  beautiful,  but  they  are  formed  by  mere  excre- 
tion, and  by  the  influenceof  the  atmosphere,  and  constitut- 
ing parts  of  the  animals  themselves,  they  do  not  belong 
to  the  class  of  productions  of  which  we  speak.  We  do 
not  think  of  ingenuity  when  we  admire  the  beautifully 
colored  wings  of  the  butterfly,  or  when  we  delight  in 
viewing  the  regular  and  beautiful  formations  of  leaves, 
of  buds  and  flowers,  for  all  of  them  form  parts  of  the  , 
beings  in  which  we  discover  them,  and  are  the  pro- 
ducts of  the  same  plastic  power  which  formed  the  ani- 
mals or  plants  themselves  ;  but  when  we  see  the  cell  of 
the  bee,  the  larva  of  the  caterpillar,  or  the  nest  of  the  tailor 
bird,  we  are  at  once  struck  with  their  ingenuity.  When 
we  examine  the  cover  in  which  the  chrysalis  of  a  ca-  . 
terpillar  awaits  its  future  transformation,  we  find  it  full 
of  design.  Some  of  these  coverings  have  a  crown  on 
one  end,  made  of  erect  and  stiff"  threads  that  form  in  the 
inside  a  smooth  and  comfortable  surface,  but  offer  stiff" 
knots  and  points  on  the  outside,  so  that  they  easily 
yield  to  a  pressure  from  within,  but  make  it  difficult  to 
be  pressed  in  from  without.  Here  is  design,  here  is 
preparation  for  a  change  which  the  animal  has  to  un- 
dergo but  once  in  its  life,  and  as  we  cannot  feel  willing 
to  ascribe  these  phenomena  to  the  knowledge  and  will 
of  the  animal,  we  must  attribute  them  to  a  peculiar     .  ^ 


36  INTRODUCTION. 

modification  of  instinct.  This  ive  feel  ourselves  the 
more  strongly  ur^ed  to  do,  when  we  ascertain  that  this 
tendency  for  artificial  productions  is  not  met  with  in  the 
more  perfect  animals  which, possess  all  the  senses  in 
considerable  perfection.  The  elephant  does  not  show 
a  trace  of  it ;  the  horse,  the  reindeer,  the  ibex,  the  ze- 
bra, are  not  possessed  of  it.  But  the  tortoise,  a  stupid, 
sluggish,  and  awkward  creature,  paddles  to  the  shore, 
digs  with  her  clumsy  feet  a  hole,  and  after  having 
deposited  her  eggs  in  it,  she  covers  it,  levels  it  with  the 
soil,  and  creeps  several  times  over  it,  so  that  not  a  trace 
of  the  hole  can  be  discovered.  ~  From  this  it  will  ap- 
pear, that  tills  modification  of  instinct  is  not  found  every 
where  in  the  animal  world,  especially  not  in  that  part 
which  by  its  completeness  of  the  senses  approaches  most 
nearly  the  intellect  of  man,  and  the  question  offers  itself, 
— Where  is  it  met  with  ? 

It  is  not  found  among  such  animals  as  maintain  a 
decided  independence  of  the  elements  in  which  they 
live  y  such  as  have  five  senses,  as  the  buffalo,  the  bison  ; 
nor  again,  among  such  as  depend, almost  wholly  on  the 
element  surrounding  themi  It  is  consequently  confined 
to  those,  in  which  dependence  on  certain  elements, 
equals  their  independence  of  them.  Their  independence 
is  exhibited  in  an  activity  resulting  from  their  wants  and 
necessity  ;  their  dependence  on  the  element  is  seen  in 
the  fact  that  they  are  wholly  penetrated  by  it,  and  that 
in  receiving  it  in  so  full  a  manner,  they  receive  also  its 
laws,  and  come  under  their  influence.  The  animal  has 
feeling,  sensation,  and  perception,  and  while  by  its  ac- 
tivity it  produces  something  wholly  different  from  itself, 
a  production  that  cannot  coalesce  with  itself ;  it  is,  at 
the  same  time,  active  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  the 
element  pervading  its  system,  and  hence  the  thing  pro- 
duced will  receive  its  form,  not  less  by  the  activity  of 
the  animal,  than  by  the  laws  of  its  element.  These 
works  are  therefore  the  joint  products  of  the  animal, 
and  of  those  laws  which  in  a  lower  sphere  call  forth 
the  many  forms  of  crystals,  and  in  a  higher  one,  the 
beautiful  formations  of  plants,  of  buds  and  flowers,  and 
which,  not  directly,  but  through  the  animal,  form  here 


INTRODUCTION.  37 

the  cell  of  the  bee,  and  there  the  pyramid  of  the  ant.  As 
the  idea  expressed  here  is^somewhat  difficult  to  be  under- 
stood, we  may  be  permitted  to  ^ive  it  in  another  form. 
When  the  plant  grows  and  produces  beautifully  formed 
buds  and  flowers,  we  admit  that  it  is  the  plastic  power 
in  the  plant,  which  produces  the  flower.  So  likewise 
it  is  the  plastic  power  of  nature  which  produces  tho. 
artificial  works  of  insects.  The  animal  has  sensation  ; 
it  has  wants  and  feels  them  ;  this  feeling*  urges  it  to  be 
active,  in  order  to  remove  the  want.  In  so  far,  the  ani- 
mal is  not  under  the  influence  of  the  laws  of  general^ 
but  under  those  of  its  own  specific  nature.  At  the  same 
time,  it  being  under  the  influence  of  the  laws  of  the  ele- 
ment in  which  it  lives,  water,  or  air,  or  light,  is  determined 
in  the  manner  of  its  activity,  no  less  by  these  laws  than 
by  its  own  wants,  so  that  its  productions  receive  their 
form  from  the  influences  of  nature  upon  them. 

The  most  beautifully  formed  crystal  does  not  fill  us 
with  as  much  wonder  as  the  cell  of  the  bee,  merely  be- 
cause the  former  is  considered  by  us  as  the  direct  pro- 
duct of  nature,  but  the  latter  as  that  of  the  design  and 
calculation  of  the  animal.  And  yet  both  rest  on  the 
same  general  ground,  with  only  this  difference,  that  the 
one  proceeds  directly  from  the  laws  of  nature,  and  the 
other  through  the  medium  of  a  living  individual.  Now 
we  may  be  able  to  see  the  reason,  why  this  ingenious 
instinct  is  confined  to  a  certain  class  of  animals.  For 
the  activity  and  independence  of  the  higher  classes,  is 
too  great  to  permit  the  laws  of  the  element,  in  which 
they  live,  to  effect  any  thing,  and  the  activity  of  those 
that  almost  wholly  depend  on  the  surrounding  element, 
is  too  insignificant  to  come  in  contact  with  its  laws. 
This  view  will  become  more  clear,  however,  by  an  ex- 
ample. The  element  in  which  the  bird  lives,  is  the  air  ; 
this  element  pervades  the  bird  so  entirely,  that  wings 
and  feathers  are  filled  with  it,  and  that  even  when  the 
windpipe  is  closed  up,  the  creature  will  still  be  able  to 
live,  if  an  opening  is  made  in  the  bone  of  the  wing,  and 
the  air  thus  permitted  to  communicate  itself  to  the  lungs. 
No  doubt  but  all  the  changes  of  the  air  must  be  quickly 
felt,  and  the  sympathy  between  the  bird  and  its  element 


38  INTRODUCTION. 

must  be  very  strong.  When,  now,  the  bird,  after  her 
young  are  reared,  feels  a  desire  to  wander,  beeaiise  nu- 
trition becomes  scarce,  the  warmth  diminishes  and  the 
whole  state  of  the  atmosphere  is  chano^ed,  she  will  be 
attracted  by  the  warm  south  wind,  and  followins:  it,  will 
find  her  new  home.  It  is  not  a  previous  knowledo^e,  then, 
not  a  compass,  that  directs  her,  but  the  warm  winds,  al- 
luring to  the  south,  penetrate  and  bear  her  onward  ;  as 
the  fish  feels  itself  drawn  by  the  sweet  waters  to  the 
rivers. 

Itxmay  be  iijsftructive  to  compare  these  artificial  pro- 
ductions of  animals  with  the  works  of  human  art.  The 
great  contrast  between  them  will  show  the  true  nature 
of  the  former. 

1.  Animals  are  born  not  only  with  the  capacity,  but 
with  the  ready  skill  to  produce  artificial  works.  This 
is  manifest  from  the  fact,  that  these  little  creatures  not 
only  execute  these  works  immediately  after  their  birth, 
but  also  in  the  same  way  throughout  their  lives,  with- 
out in  the  least  improving  them.  The  spider  feels  a 
tendency  to  weave  his  web,  before  he  has  seen  the  flies, 
to  ensnare  which  he  spins  the  thread.  The  ant-eater  can 
scarcely  yet  move,  when  his  nature  already  impels  him 
to  prepare  the  funnel,  for  the  purpose  of  catching  ants 
and  other  insects.  To  say  that  they  learned  this  from 
seeing  their  parents  do  the  same,  would  be  contrary  to 
experience.  For,  as  Aristotle  remarks,  if  we  have  three 
eggs  hatched  by  artificial  heat,  one  of  a  bird,  one  of  a 
duck,  and  one  of  a  serpent,  we  shall  see  the  young  bird 
try  to  fly,  before  its  wings  are  grown  ;  the  duck  to  swim, 
and  the  serpent  to  creep  into  the  earth,  before  they  have 
seen  any  one  of  their  kind  do  the  same.  What  man 
does,  he  must  have  learned  by  trial,  but  the  caterpillar 
has  only  once  in  his  life  to  undergo  a  transformation, 
and  yet  he.  knows  how  to  spin  a  covering  that  will 
suit  his  future  state,  of  which  he  cannot  have  the  least 
idea.  The  work,  to  be  produced,  seems  to  bear  a  prophet- 
ic character,  for  while  the  larva  is  still  of  a  cylindric 
form,  he  weaves  a  covering  fitted  to  the  form  of  the 
dhrysalis,  as  if  he  had  his  future  state  before  his  eyes. 
Man  is  not  born  \yith  any  ready  skill,  like  the  animal ; 


INTRODUCTION.  39 

his  arm  allows  the  mere  possibility  of  performing 
thousands  of  different  operations,  but  this  possibility- 
must  be  exercised  and  developed.  Exercise  demands 
both  time  and  repetition,  and  produces  experience ; 
but  experience  is  impossible  without  reason  and  judg- 
ment. All  the  artificial  productions  of  animals  are 
based  on  instinct ;  those  of  man  on  reason,  will,  and 
consciousness,  and  hence  it  is  that  the  former  have  refer- 
ence only  to  physical  wants,  but  the  latter  to  intellec- 
tual. 

2.  Some  of  the  animals  construct  their  artificial  works 
from  materials  that  are  contained  in  themselves.  The 
spider  draws  out  the  thread  from  an  excrescence  on  its 
body,  attaches  it  to  some  external  object,  and  separates 
it  from  itself.  The  aquatic  spider,  that  cannot  live 
under  water  without  air,  draws  forth  from  its  nipple  a 
moist  substance,  a  kind  of  varnish,  covers  itself  with 
it,  and  bursting  this  bladder,  it  forms  by  degrees  a  diver's 
bell  of  it,  as  large  as  half  a  pigeon's  egg  ;  by  a  few  threads 
it  fastens  it  to  some  solid  object  in  the  water,  its  opening 
hanging  downward,  and  then  filling  it  with  air,  it  may  , 
sit  in  it  below  the  water  for  a  long  time,  and  watch  its 
prey.  So  the  bee  gains  honey  and  wax  by  digestion, 
and  forms  its  cells  of  them.  But  other  animals,  like 
man,  use  inorganic  materials  ;  the  beaver  takes  wood, 
the  bird  twigs,  though  the  latter  lines  his  nest  with 
hair,  straws,  etc.  The  house  of  the  beaver,  and  that  of 
man,  may  consist  of  nearly  the  same  materials.  There 
is,  however,  this  difference.  The  animal  uses  these  inor- 
ganic substances  without  knowing  their  qualities,  with- 
out having  the  least  idea  of  the  powers  that  fit  them 
for  the  uses  to  which  they  apply  them.  They  do  not 
use  them,  therefore,  from  choice  or  consideration,  but 
being  directed  to  them  by  instinct.  The  swallow  builds 
its  nest  of  the  same  materials  now,  which  it  used  in  the 
time  of  Pliny.  Man,  on  the  other  hand,  knows  the 
powers  of  different  substances,  and  their  fitness  for  va- 
rious purposes ;  he,  therefore,  selects  and  judges.  Stones 
may  be  good  for  one,  wood  for  another  building.  He 
has  works  written  on  the  different  building  materials. 


40  INTRODUCTION. 

and  architects  must  be  well  acquainted  with  the  nature 
of  timber  and  stone. 

3.  Animals  produce  all  their  works  by  their  own 
limbs,  for  they  have  no  instruments.  The  beaver  saws 
the  wood  with  his  teeth,  drives  stakes  into  the  ground, 
and  smooths  the  earth  with  his  tail.  These  limbs  are 
so  constructed  that  their  natural  motions  have  a  ten- 
dency to  produce  the  works,  which  appear  to  us  so  re- 
markable. The  proboscis  of  the  bee  is  well  shaped  to 
be  thrust  into  the  nectar-cup  of  buds,  and  to  drink  in 
their  sweet  juices.  The  German  rat  has  a  bag  below 
the  chin,  into  which  it  gathers  grain  ;  the  mole  has  pro- 
truding fore^feet  to  dig  with ;  the  fish  has  fins  and  a 
broad,  upright,  standing  tail,  to  swim.  But  man,  ac- 
cording to  Franklin,  is^n  animal  that  can  invent  ma- 
chines. The  savage,  fastening  a  sharp  stone  to  a  club, 
uses  it  as  an  axe  ;  he  does  not  defend  himself  by  his. 
Hmbs,  but  by  the  bow,  the  arrow,  and  the  tomahawk. 
Man  has  invented  the  saw  and  the  hatchet,  the  sword 
and  the  gun,  the  furnace  and  the  mill,  and  is  daily  in- 
creasing the  number  of  machines.  There  is  no  animal 
that  ever  attempted  to  fabricate  its  works  by  the  use  of 
self-invented  machines,  or  by  fire.  Monkeys,  that  are 
generally  admitted  to  be  ingenious,  never  think  of  keep- 
ing up  the  fire  by  adding  wood,  though  they  evidently 
delight  in  its' warmth  ;  nor  of  firing  woods,  or  of  destroy- 
ing the, property  of  those  that  injure  them,  or  of  pre- 
paring instruments  of  iron  by  the  aid  of  fire. 

4.  The  arts  of  animals  have  no  history,  as  have  those 
of  man.  "  They  have  no  history  in  the  objective  sense  of 
the  word  ;  they  have  no  gradual  development,  no  culti- 
vation, no  improvement ;  they  are  stationary,  they  are 
the  same  now  that  they  always  were.  The  arts  of 
animals  cannot  have  a  history  in  the  subjective  sense  of 
the  term  history,  for  there  can  be  no  historical  narration 
where  nothing  is  to  be  narrated^  and  animals  cannot  be 
conscious  of  an  improvement,  when  there  is  none.  But 
it  is  the  character  of  history,  that  on  the  one  hand  it  de- 
velops gradually  all  the  capacities  of  a  nation,  or  of 
our  race  ;  and  on  the  other,  makes  us  conscious  of  them 
by  narrating  them ;  and  hence  it  is,  too,  that  history  object- 


INTRODUCTION.  41 

ively  means  the  actions  related,  res  gestae^  and  subject- 
ively the  relation  of  them,  historia  verum  gestarum^ 
On  the  other  hand,  there  was  a  time  when  man  knew 
of  no  arts,  not  even  of  such  as  are  now  considered  in- 
dispensable. But  animals  have  always  had  the  same 
arts  in  the  same  degree  of  perfection  and  for  the  same 
purposes  as  at  present.  Man  had  to  invent  his,  and  he 
changes  and  improves  them  daily.  The  arts  of  men 
differ  in  different  regions,  while  the  same  animals  will 
always  produce  the  same  works,  wherever  they  are. 
And  so  men  of  different  capacities  in  the  same  region, 
will  have  different  success,  while  animals  of  the  same 
kind  will  have  the  same. 

5.  Finally,  the  purpose  for  which  animals  produce 
works  of  art,  is  Hmited  to  the  sustenance  of  individual 
life  and  the  preservation  of  the  race.  Hence  their  works 
are  few  in  number.  The  spider  can  only  spin  a  web  ; 
the  bee  can  only  build  a  cell.  Hence  it  is  too,  that  the 
bird  does  not  build  his  nest  before  the  time  of  propaga- 
tion. The  purposes,  for  which  man  exercises  his  inge- 
nuity and  inclination  to  art,  aj'e  manifold.  By  mechan- 
ical art  he  invents  instruments,  to  serve  his  desire  for 
knowledge.  The  press,  the  paper,  the  ink,  the  watch, 
the  electrical  machine,  the  compass,  the  telescope,  give 
sufficient  proof  of  this ;  and  the  yard  and  the  measure, 
the  landmark  and  the  coin,  show  that  his  ingenuity  is 
made  subservient  to  his  sense  of  justice.  By  the  fine 
arts  he  enters  the  sphere  of  beauty  and  the  compositions 
of  Mozart  and  Beethoven,  of  Handel  and  Haydn  ;  the 
pictures  of  Raphael  and  Titian,  the  poetry  of  Shak- 
speare  and  Homer  must  serve  to  satisfy  his  longing  for 
intellectual  entertainment. 

From  the  above  remarks  it  sufficiently  appears,  that, 
though  the  works  of  animals  are  full  of  intellect  and 
design,  it  is  not  their  design,  we  admire,  but  that  of  the- 
Creator,  who  accomplishes  it  through  the  animals. 

RELATION  OF  INSTINCT  TO  MAN. 

The  plastic  power,  as  it  exists  and  operates  in  the 
plant  is  blind,  for  it  has  neither  sensation  nor  percep- 

6 


42        -  INTRODUCTION. 

tion.  The  instinct  of  animals  is  like  the  twilight,  not 
clear,  confused  in  itself,  for  it  can  neither  comprehend, 
judge,  nor  conclude  ;  it  distinguishesonly  by  sensations, 
and  such  distinctions  are  faint  unaccompanied  by 
consciousness,  and  not  resulting  from  comparison,  but 
depending  wholly  on  the  strength  of  the  impression 
made  by  the  different  objects  on  the  senses  of  the 
animal.  The  instinct  of  insects  and  of  those  animals, 
that  produce  artificial  works,  is  cheerful  and  so  regular 
in  its  productions,  that  they  seem  to  be  living  arithme- 
ticians ;  yet  they  thus  only  appear  to  us,  for  in  reality 
these  little  creatures  are  not  conscious  of  their  powers, 
Man  has  the  power  of  thought ;  here  every  thing  be- 
comes transparent,  clear,  distinct  and  manifest ;  where 
pure  thought  prevails,  there  instinct  loses  its  power. 
Though  the  animal  is  separated  from  the  vegetable 
kingdom  by  sensation  and  perception,  the  plastic  power 
of  plants  is  continued  in  it,  and  the  animal  is  formed 
by  it,  grows,  matures  and  decays  according  to  its  laws. 
So  man  is  separated  from  the  animal  by  reason,  but  on 
the  one  hand,  he  is  formed  by  the  same  plastic  power, 
and  on  the  other,  instinct  still  appears  in  the  new-born 
child,  whose  lips  long  for  nourishment,  and  in  many 
of  the  actions  of  savages.  The  principal  manifesta- 
tions of  instinct  in  man,  however,  are  those  of  hunger 
and  thirst,  of  motion  and  rest,  and  of  care  for  the  race. 
But,  as  has  been  said  above,  man  is  separated  from  the 
animal  by  reason  ;  he  can  thmk,  he  can  will,  and  by 
these  powers  he  reigns  over  his  instinct,  and  subjects  it 
it  to  his  discipline.  He  must  live,  in  order  to  think, 
he  must  eat  and  drink,  in  order  to  live ;  but'  while  the 
animal  is  wholly  under  the  control  of  instinct,  and  while 
hunger  is  a  tyrant  whose  dictates  must  be  obeyed, 
man  can  not  oiily  eat  what  he  pleases,  but  also  wholly 
abstain  from  food,  and  though  urged  by  an  excessive 
appetite  he  may  nevertheless  give  aw-ay  his  food,  or  like 
Atticus  starve  himself  in  the  midst  of  plenty.  The  ani- 
mal must  eat,  when  hungry,  and  it  must  eat  what  its  in- 
stinct directs  it  to  use.  The  lion  cannot  eat  hay,  the 
horse  will  not  eat  flesh.  Nor  will  the  animal  eat  more 
than  is  sufficient  to  appease  its  wants,  but  man  may  eat 


INTRODUCTION.  43 

and  drink  much  or  little.  A  glutton  is  said  to  have  eaten 
before  theEmperor  Aurelian  a  wild  hog,  a  young  pig,  a 
wholelamb,  one  hundred  pieces  of  Roman  bread,  and 
to  have  drank  one  bucket  full  of  wine. 

Such  too,  is  the  case  with  all  the  other  natural 
powers  of  man.  He  may  live  or  commit  suicide,  the  ani- 
mal must  live,  and  though  the  rein-deer  is  said  to  kill 
itself  by  dashing  its  head  against  the  tree,  its  death  is 
accidental,  for  it  intends  only  to  free  itself  from  pain, 
caused  by  the  glutton  which  fastens  upon  its  head. 
The  whole  life  of  the  animal  is  a  slavish  one.  The 
sight  of  the  hunter  puts  the  stag  to  flight,  and  he  must 
bound  over  hill  and  valley,  over  bush  and  brook.  But 
when  the  cannon-ball  fell  into  the  room  of  Charles  XII, 
and  he  remained  calmly  in  his  chair,  when  the  Dutch 
admiral,  in  the  moment  he  was  about  to  take  a  pinch  of 
snuff",  and  lost  the  extended  hand  by  a  shot,  took  it 
with  the  other,  and  when  a  British  cannonier,  whose 
right  hand  was  torn  off"  by  a  ball  as  he  was  about  to 
discharge  his  cannon,  used  the  left  with  the,  words, 
"  does  the  enemy  think  that  I  have  but  one  hand  ?"  they 
showed,  that  they  by  their  will,  were  above  the  necessity 
of  yielding  to  fear  or  the  influence  of  pain. 

Man  possessing  reason,  has  an  innate  desire  for  know- 
ledge, which  the  animal  has  not.  This  desire  is  more 
than  instinct,  and  not  any  part  of  it.  This  may 
be  easily  made  clear.  The  gratification  of  instinct 
is  pleasure,  connected  with  sensation  and  perception, 
with  the  taste  of  food,  with  the  motion  of  muscles  or  their 
rest.  But  the  gratification  of  a  desire  for  knowledge,  is 
pleasure  connected  with  our  apperceptions,  with  our 
cognitions,  with  our  comprehensions,  judgments,  and 
conclusions.  In  the  sphere  of  instmct  all  is  confined  to 
sense,  in  the  sphere  of  our  intellectual  desires,  our  plea- 
sure, are  derived  from  thought,  from  a  satisfaction  of  t)ur 
thirst  for  knowledge.  But  while  instinct  extends  not 
beyond  the  sphere  of  sensation,  our  desire  for  kno'w- 
ledge  includes  instinct^  and  it  is  this  which  leads  many 
of  us  to  the  objects  suited  to  the  exercise  of  our 
peculiar  talents.  So  Linnaeus,  when  yet  an  infant, 
could  be  silenced  by  no  other  toy  so  quickly,  as  by  a 


%* 


44-  INTR0I>UCTI0N. 

flower  put  into  his  hands.  So  Mozart,  when  only  six 
years  old,  would  make  distinctions  between  different 
notes,  which  his  father,  likewise  a  musician,  could  not 
perceive.  Instinct  mingling  with  our  desire  for  know- 
lege,  constitutes  in  union  with  it,  talents  and  natural  ca- 
pacities, 

The  hfe  of  man  and  that  of  the  animals,  it  must  be 
evident,  differ  widely,  not  only  in  degree,  but  in  kind. 
Where  that  af  man  commences,  the  animal  is  left  be- 
hind. A  chasm  separates  the  one  from  the  other.  The, 
animal  may  gaze  on  man,  but  it  cannot  understand 
him,  for  it  is  unable  to  think  or  to  comprehend,  and 
the  words  spoken  to  the  dog,  for  example,  are  not  for 
him  what,  they  are  for  man,  sounds  full  of  meaning, 
they  are  mere  signs  to  him.  The  life  of  the  animal  is 
like  a  dream ;  and  even  while  waking  it  dreams.  But 
the  life  of  man  is  fully  awake,  it  is  possessed  of  self-con- 
sciousness and  gifted  with  the  capacity  to  originate  con- 
stantly new  thoughts,  and  assisted  by  the  powers  of  na- 
ture to  realize  them. 


^ 


4^ 
'I 


^^ 


PARTI. 

ANTHROPOLOGY. 


,-      * 


Jk       ' 


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«  . 


i.  '^f-- 


^ 


■^ 


47 


PART  I 


ANTHROPOLOGY 


Mental  philosophy  has  to  consider  t?ie  mind  of  man, 
1.  In  its  connection  with  the  body,  in  its  dependence 
upon  it,  and  through  it  upon  nature.  2.  In  its  relation 
to  itself. 

In  the  former  case  its  doctrines  may  be  mbraced  un- 
der the  general  term  Anthropology,  and  in  the  latter 
that  of  Psychology.  The  object  of  Anthropology  is 
to  examine  the  internal  influences  to  which  mind  is 
subject,  and  its  modifications  produced  by  them.  The 
object  of  Psychology  is  to  investigate  the  nature  of  mind, 
as  it  is  conscious  of  itself  and  of  the  difference  between 
it  and  nature,  and  as  it  has  rendered  these  natural  in- 
fluences more  or  less  subject  to  its  power. 

The  mind  becomes  subject  to  the  influences  of  physic- 
al nature  only  by  its  connection  with  the  body.  What- 
ever affects  the  latter  permanently,  will  also  influence 
the  former.  Tiie  qualities  of  the  mind,  produced  by 
these  influences,  are  therefore,  likewise  permanent. 
The  Mongol,  the  Malay,  and  the  Negro,  are  the  same 
at  present,  physically  and  psychologically,  that  they 
were  at  the  time  of  Herodotus,  who  describes  them  as 
Scythians,  Indians,  and  Black  People.  The  disposition 
of  the  Laplander  cannot  be  changed  into  that  of  the 
Frenchman,  by  emigrating  to  the  South,  no  more  than  a 
transplanted  peach-tree  can  become  a  palm-tree.     This 


^4 


48  '^  ANTHROPOLOGT. 

general  modification  of  the  mind  may.  however,  be  al- 
tered by  the  pecuUar  capacities  of  an  individual,  by  tem- 
perament, by  age,  or  by  exchanging  one  region  for 
another.  Nor  is  the  mind  subjected  by  its  connection 
with  the  body  to  these  influences  of  situation  and  cir- 
cirmstances.  Possessed  of  consciousness  and  will,  it 
may  subject  the  body  and  all  its  peculiarities,  and  also 
the  solar,  lunar,  and  telluric  influences  to  its  control,  at 
least  in^a  great  degree. 

Anthropology  may,  therefore,  be  (Jivided  into  three 
parts:  or  those  which  treat, 

I.  Of  the  'permanent  infl.uences  of  nature,  of  race,  sex, 
<fcc.  upon  the  mind. 

II.  Of  the  transient  influences  of  age,  sleep,  dream- 
ing, (fcc. 

III.  Of  the  power  of  the. mind  over  the  body. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  NATURE  UPON  THE  MIND 
OF  MAN. 


It  cannot  escape  the  observation  of  any,  that  every 
organic  form  of  life  is  so  affected  by  the  quality  of  the 
elements  surrounding  it,  that  a  certain  region  of  the 
earth,  with  the  plants  and  animals  growing  in  it,  and 
characterizing  it,  seems  to  form  one  inseparable  whole. 
No  sooner  does  the  student  of  Natural  History  perceive 
a  salt  spring,  than  he  looks  for  the  plants  peculiar  to 
springs  of  this  kind.  As  the  osteologist  may  judge, 
from  a  single  bone,  of  the  whole  animal,  so  a  single 
plant  may  indicate  to  the  scientific  botanist,  the  face  and 
soil  of  the  earth,  and  the  elements  in  which  it  grew. 
The  same  truth  is  seen  throughout  all  nature.  The 
seed  depends  for  its  growth  on  a  favorable  soil,  no  less 


ANTHROPOLOG  V^.  ^'  49 

than  on  a  favorable  season.  The  plant  that  luxuriates 
in  a  mild  and  rich  soiF,  when  transplanted  into  another, 
will  wither.  The  elements  that  called  forth  its  life  are 
re(^uired  for  its  support.  With  animals  the  sanie  is  the 
fact ;  some  of  them,  like  plants,  appear  and  disappear 
with  certain  seasons;  others  with  certain  plants.  The 
whole  existence  of  the  cherry- worm  continues  only  as 
long  as  the  cherry ;  "it  then  buries  itself  in  the  earth, 
re-appears  in  the  following  May.  as  a  little  black  fly,  lays 
its  egg  in  the  cherry,  and  dies.  No  animal  but  the  dog 
can  live  except  within  certain  geographical  boundaries, 
so  that  we  may  have  a  geography  of  plants  and  ani- 
mals. The  connection  of  certain  animals  with  plants, 
and  that  of  plants  with  some  peculiar  spot  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  is  truly  striking.  The  cameleopard,  and  the 
cameleopard-plant,  are  both  found  in  the  south  of  Africa, 
and  nowhere  else.  The  elements  too,  in  which  animals 
principally  live,  very  essentially  affect  their  natures. 
The  fish,  living  in  the  water,  is  mute,  cheerless,  serious, 
and  phlegmatic.  Insects,  on  the  other  hand,  playing  and 
spending  their  lives  in  the  light,  are  agile,  beautifully 
colored,  some  of  them  transparent  as  light,  and  most 
of  them  courageous,  choleric,  and  very  destructive. 
Little  insects  will  destroy  whole  woods ;  a  little  ant 
in  the  south  frequently  ruins  the  finest  furniture.  Ho- 
mer was  aware  of  the  boldness  of  insects.  When 
Achilles  protects  the  body  of  his  friend  Patroclus,  from 
the  TrojanSjHoraer  compares  them  to  flies,  which  though 
constantly  chased  away  by  the  mother  sitting  by  the 
cradle  of  her  babe,  perseveringly  repeat  their  bold  at- 
tacks. Again,  birds  live  in  the  air,  and  the  effects  of 
this  element  on  them  is  expressed  in  their  cheerful- 
ness, their  delight  in  singing,  and  their  sailing  about  in 
the  air  with  intense  pleasure. 

It  cannot  be  otherwise  with  man.  He  too  must  feel 
the  effect  of  seasons  and  times,  of  heat  and  cold,  and  of 
the  elements  in  general.  His  body  develops  itself  by 
the  laws  which  the  Creator  has  given  to  the  earth. 
The  earth  supports  man  by  the  air  he  breathes,  by  the 
food  he  eats  ;  it  clothes  him  by  furnishing  the  materials 
which  art  prepares ;  it  protects  him  from  storm  and 

7 


50 


ANTHROPOLOGY. 


rain,  from  heat  and  cold,  by  affording  him  the  stone  and 
timber,  furs,  skins,  and  his  fuel.  The  earth  and  its 
productions  arouse  his  senses,  impress  his  mind,  ex- 
cite his  desires,  and  exercise  his  activity.  The  sight  of 
scanty  or  luxuriant  vegetation  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
intercourse  of  man  with  animals  on  the  other,  as  that 
of  the  Arabians  with  their  horses,  of  the  Laplanders 
with  their  rein-deer,  of  the  Greenlanders  or  Samoi- 
edes,  with  their  seals,  or  that  of  the  Moors  with  their 
camels,  must  affect  variously  his  disposition!  Man.  as 
long  as  he  lives,  depends  on  the  earth  and  its  produc- 
tions; its  laws,  and  characteristic  powers  must  not  only 
influence  him,  but  leave  certain  traces  and  permanent 
impressions^ on  his  mind.  The  earth,  however,  became 
the  residence  of  such  a  being  as  man,  by  the  position  it 
occupies  in  our  planetary  system.  By  this  position  it 
stands  in  a  relation  to  the-sun,  the  moon,  and  to  itself. 
On  these  relations  all  life  on  earth  depends.  The  par- 
ticular relation  of  the  earth  to  the  sun  produces  a  high- 
er or  lower  degree  of  heat  and  cold.  The  general  con- 
sequence in  this  respect  is,  that  too  great  heat  arrests 
the  development  of  mind  by  relaxing  the  nervous  and 
muscular  system,  and  that  too  great  cold  has  the  same 
effect  by  contracting  those  systems,  so  that  the  Peshera- 
es  in  the  south  fully  resemble  the  Esquimaux  in  the  far- 
thest north,  both  as  to  size  and  form  of  body,  and  as  to 
intellect.  Again,  too  sudden  transitions  from  one  tem- 
perature to"  another,  are  less  favorable  to  the  health  of 
body  and  mind,  than  mere  gradual  ones  ;  hence  it  must 
follow,  that  a  region,  blessed  with  the  regular  four  sea- 
sons, so  that  spring  and  autumn  are  interposed  between 
summer  and  vyinter,  must  be  more  favorable  to  the  in- 
tellectual life  of  man,  than  one  where  either  summer  or 
winter  continues  almost  without  interruption.  The 
same  must  be  said  of  the  transitions  from  day  to  night. 
Where  they  are  very  sudden,  a  relaxation  of  the  system 
will  take  place  ;  where  they  are  more  gradual,  so  that 
day  and  night  are  separated  by  the  twilight  of  the  eve- 
ning and  the  dawn  of  the  morning,  there  the  system 
will  feel  invigorated  by  a  cool  evening  after  a  warm 
day,  and  will,  by  degrees,  pass  over  from  the  freshness 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  61 

of  a  balmy  morning  to  the  heat  of  noon.  The  mornmg 
is  the  threshold  of  expectation,  the  day  is  the  season  of 
labor  and  activity,  the  evening  that  of  enjoyment  and 
satisfaction,  and  the  night  that  of  rest.  The  interrup- 
tion of  this  natural  course,  is  injurious  to  body  and 
mind.  '    ^ 

The  temperate  zones  for  these  reaspns  will  always 
be  the  seat  of  intellect  and  science.  Here  the  mind  is 
energetic ;  the  soft,  vernal  breezes,  the  charms  of  a  ten- 
der verdure,  resting  on  hills  and  valleys,  which  appear 
gradually,  call  forth  hopes  oand  anticipations  and  a 
vigorous  activity.  As  they  disappear,  a  melancholy 
seriousness  and  earnestness,  a  desire  for  the  past,  and 
a  consciousness  of  the  vanity  bf  all  things  will  arise  in 
the  breast,  when  forests,  and  hills,  and  valleys  are  gra- 
dually stripped  of  their  beauty,  when  the  country  sinks 
into  a  deep  gloom,  and  the  life  of  animated. nature  be- 
comes mute  and  finally  dies  away.  In  the  temperate 
zones,  however,  are  differences  worthy  to  be  noticed. 
In  the  East,  the  sun  rises  with  majesty  and  pursues  his 
course  towards  the  west.  The  brightness  of  his  light 
is  so  great,  that  man,  in  gazing  at  it,  is  lost  in  admira- 
tion and  does  not  notice  the  things  rendered  visible  by 
the  light,  because  the  glorious  light  itself  too  much  at- 
tracts his  eye.  He  adores,  he  worships  it.  In  the  West 
the  sun  sets ;  his  brightness  is  less  brilliant,  though 
frequently  sublime  and  beautiful.  Man  is  not  over- 
come by  it,  and  when  the  setting-sun  sinks  behind  the 
mountain  before  our  eye,  the  idea  that  he  will  illumi- 
nate other  worlds  and  return,  involuntarily  offers  itself; 
and  if  we  are  reminded  of  our  own  departure,  out  breast 
will  be  cheered  by  the  hope,  that  we  likewise  shall  rise 
again.  Hence  it  is,  that  the  West  is  the  proper  field  for 
science  art  and  history,  for  there  alone  man  obtains 
full  possession  of  himself,  and  a  clear  consciousness  of 
the  world  around  him.  It  is  remarkable,  that  as  the 
sun  rises  in  the  east,  so  many  sciences  have  originated 
there,  and  even  religion  was  there  first  revealed  to 
man.  But  nothing  gained  its  full  maturity  in  the 
East.  The  Chinese  claim  the  honor  of  having  dis- 
covered gunpowder,  but  the  Jesuits  had  to  furnish  them 


62  anthr6pglogy. 

with  cannon.  They  pretend  to  have  invented  the 
printing  press,  but  as  yet  they  have  only  presses  of  wood 
with  immovable  letters.  What  Greece  and  Rome 
were  in  ancient  times,  Europe  and  America  are  in  mo- 
dern. 

I.  The  influence  of  the  moon  on  the  mind  of  man. 
Certain  as  the  influence  of  the  moon  is  upon  the  earth, 
it  is  very^  limited  on  man.  Some  diseases  of  the 
mind  are  undoubtedly  modified  by  the  moon,  and  phy- 
,  sicians  are  of  the  opinion,  that  bodily  diseases  are  much 
affected  by  it.  Yet  on  the  whole  its  influence  is  not 
sufficiently  ascertained,  and  we  have  to  confine  it  here 
to  the  eflfects  produced  by  its  light  on  our  imagination. 
These  effects  may  be  seen  in  the  poetry  and  mythology 
of  nations,  and,'whenever  perceptible,  are  highly  fantasti- 
cal. The  dim  light  of  the  moon  does  not  delineate  ob- 
jects accurately,  but  exhibits  them  in  shadowy  and  uncer- 
tain shapes.  The  Greenlander  imagines  the  heavenly 
bodies,  sun  and  moon,  pursuing  each  other  in  despair  of 
Success.  "  The  earth,"  they  say,  "  rests  on  immense 
pillars  of  ice,  that  constantly  threaten  ruin.  Demons 
of  darkness  desire  its  destruction,  and  they  are  only  re- 
strained from  dashing  the  tottering  fabric  to  pieces  by 
the  howl  of  AngekokSj  which  fill  the  night  with  their 
shrieks  from  dark,  icy  and  barren  regions!"  Such  fan- 
cies come  upon  us  from  the  hour  of  midnight,  that  be- 
gets the  fear  of  spectres,  and  that,  in  dim  moonlight 
makes  us  see  a  ghost  in  every  object. 

2.  The  local  influence  of  the  earth  upon  the  mind  of 
man  The  influence  of  the  sun  depends  upon  the 
union  of  his  light  with  the  activity  of  the  earth.  The 
rays,  that  fall  upon  morasses,  will  produce  poisonous 
vapors  ;  those,  that  in  the  same  region,  fall  upon  sand, 
deadly  heat ;  and  those  that  are  absorbed  by  moist  oases 
a  cheerful  vegetation.  The  nature  of  the  sun  blends 
with  that  of  the  earth,  and  the  earth  surrounds  man, 
and  possesses  him  and  keeps  him,  whithersoever  he 
goes,  as  long  as  he  enjoys  the  light  of  the  sun.  But  the 
surface  of  the  earth  is  in  different  regions  peculiarly 
modified  by  soil,  by  productions,  by  scenery,  by  the  sere- 
nity and  color  of  the  sky,  by  air  and  atmosphere.     Man 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  63 

must  be  born  on  some  particular  spot,  and  its  whole 
character,  will  impress  itself  strongly  upon  his  youthful 
mind.     All  his  desires,  every  thought  of  his  soul,  every 
one  of  his  wishes,  every   hope  is  more  or  less  inter- 
woven with  this  impression  of  his  home,  and  his  whole 
disposition  greatly  depends  upon  the  region  of  his  birth. 
So  much  is  this  the  case,  that  when  man  leaves  the 
home  of  his  youth,  and  when  new  scenery,  new  objects, 
new  customs  are-contrasted  with  those  by  which  his  ear- 
ly desires  and  habits  were  modified,  and   from  which 
they  in  some  measure  proceeded,  he  becomes  sick  with 
longing  for  his  home.     His  feelings   and  views,  desires 
and  habits,  that  grew  up  with  the  objects  of  his  early 
home,  are  still  the  same  in  his  breast, but  the  visible  world 
around  him  no  longer  corresponds  with  them,  and  this 
contradiction  induces  him  constantly  to  recall  the  image 
of  his  native   country.      This  great  influence  of  lo- 
cality may  further  be  seen  in  the  modifications  which 
it  imparts  to  the  character  and   disposition  of  men.     If 
we  compare  the  Abyssinians  and  Shangallas,  who  live 
in   the  same  zone,  we  shall  be  most  forcibly  struck 
with  the  truth  of  this  assertion.     The  former,  seeking 
the  high  Alps  of  north  Africa,  which  are  covered  with 
rich  prairies,  keep  large  herds  of  cattle,  make  use  of  the 
horse,  of  iron,  <fcc.  and  are  a  noble  race,   strong,  versa- 
tile, acute,^  active,  and  possessed  of  a  chivalrous  dispo- 
sition.    Living,  under  a  serene  sky,  in  a  pure  atmos- 
phere, and  a  mild  temperature,  they  are  cultivated  and  hu- 
mane, and  would  be  much  more  so,  were  they  not  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  enemies,  so  that  they  themselves, 
according  to  Ritter,  compare  their  land  to  the  Donguelat, 
a  beautiful  flower,  but  like  the  thistle  beset  with  thorns, 
The  Shangallas  on  the  other  hand,  dwelling  in  the  mo- 
rasses and  swamps  along  the  river  Mahareb,  inhaling 
poisonous  vapors,  submitting  to  all  kinds  of  diseases, 
living  on  lizards,  on  the  flesh  of  the  ostrich,  rhinoceros, 
elephant,  and  on  fish,  never  think  of  improving  their 
homes  or  exchanffins  them  for  a  better  reo^ion.     Thick 
woods  with  large  trees,  that  aflbrd  an  easy  protection 
from  the  heat  of  the  sun  and  wooden  lances,  is  all  they 
desire.     When  the  rainy  season  commences,  they,  as 


54   *  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

do  the  rain-worms  when  the  sun  shines,  disappear  in 
caves,  which  they  quickly  dig  in  the  soft  sand-stone 
along  the  steep,  inaccessible  walls  of  the  high  rocks. 
"  The  negroes  along  the  coasts,"  says  the  celebrated  Rit- 
ter,  "  differ  as  widely  from  those  of  the  mountains^  as  the 
inhabitants  of  cities  from  those  of  th^e  country,  and  so  the 
negroes  that  live  on  mountains,  differ  widely  from  the 
negroes  of  the  plain." 

The  principal  differences  with  regard  to  the  surface 
of  the  earth,  are  those  of  the  Highlands,  Plains  and 
Coasts  : 

(1.)  Highlands.  The  purity  of  the  air,  and  the  liberty 
with  which,  the  inhabitants  roam  on  their  highlands, 
gives  them  the  spirit  of  independence,  that  makes  them 
reluctant  to  be  restrained  by  laws.  They  feel  depress- 
ed when  they  descend  into  the  valleys  ;  they  cannot 
breathe  freely,  their  eyes  cannot  pierce  the  depths 
of  distant  horizons  ;  the  color  of  the  sky,  plants  and 
animals  are  all  so  different,  that  they  pine  away  with 
home-sickness.  Wandering  from  place  to  place,  free 
as  the  birds  of  the  air  they  lead  a  careless  and  cheerful 
life.  Right  and  justice  rest  in  the  strength  of  the  arm  ; 
hospitality  and  robbery  spring  up  with  equal  ease,  and 
in  the  same  breast.  No  tie  keeps  the  Highlanders  to- 
gether, except  that  of  family  connection.  They  split  in- 
to small  clans,  and  though  wars  should  unite  them  for 
a  time,  they  are  dispersed  in  a  moment  after  their  battles 
are  fought.  They  swell  like  a  mountain  torrent,  and 
like  it  disappear.  Living  in  the  bosom  of  nature,  how- 
ever, being  strangers  to  the  luxuries  of  cities,  their 
characters  are  strong,  noble  and  high-minded.  The 
Foulahs  dwelling  on  the  high  Alps  of  Africa,  stand  as 
high  in  tbis  respect  above  their  neighbors  living  be- 
low them,  as  the  natives  of  Cashmere  above  the  Hin- 
doos. 

(2.)  Plains  and  Valleys^  on  the  other  hand,  by  the 
richness  of  their  soil,  and  numerous  streams,  invite  to 
a  settled  life.  Agriculture  is  carriedon,  and  its  suc- 
cess being  dependent  on  the  regular  return  of  sea- 
sons, it  leads  to  order  and  regularity.  The  idea  of  pro- 
perty becomes  more  developed,  for  no  one  would  be 


* 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  55 

willing  to  bestow  labor  upon  the  cultivation  of  land,  un- 
less he  were  sure  of  the  eicclusive  possession  of  it,  and 
of  a  permanent  protection  of  his  claims.  A  regularly  es- 
tablished government  becomes  indispensable.  Valleys 
have  at  all  times  been  the  seats  of  large  empires.  Man, 
by  the  power  of  mind  subdues  the  wildness  of  nature, 
and  by  extirpating  large  forests,  in  which  the  cold  and 
snow  of  winter  loves  to  dwell,  he  improves  the  climate, 
and  having  once  satisfied  the  necessities  of  life,  he  turns 
his  attention  to  science  and  art. 

(3.)  Coasts  form  a  strong,  bold,  independent  and  kind- 
hearted  people.  The  ocean  was  not  intended,  as 
Horace  sings,  to  separate  nations  and  sections  of  the 
earth.  Mountains  and  not  waters,  Hegel  remarks  in 
his  Philosophy  of  History,  are  barriers  to  the  intercourse 
of  different  people,  and  Cesar,  in  crossing  the  Alps, 
caused  a  new  epoch  in  history.  Waters  between  difter- 
ent  countries,  though  vast  as  the  Atlantic,  do  not  keep 
nations  asunder,  but  as  man  builds  bridges  over  rivers,  so 
he  erects  moving  bridges,  or  as  Horace  says,  creates 
horses  of  the  deep,  that  will  unite  one  coast  with  ano- 
ther. Europe  and  America  have  more  intercourse  than 
Spain  and  France,  though  the  latter  are  only  separated 
by  the  Pyrenees.  The  mind  and  disposition  of  man, 
living  along  the  coast,  near  the  surface  of  great  waters, 
is  enlarged  and  ennobled,  for  while  the  immensity  of  the 
ocean  fills  the  breast  with  an  idea  of  the  infinite,  the 
rising  and  sinking  waves,  the  constantly  changing 
bosom  of  the  deep,  remind  him  of  the  uncertainty  of 
all  earthly  things,  of  their  changeableness,  and  of  the 
necessity  of  assisting  one  another.  The  watery  ele- 
ment invites  us,  for  it  oflTers  wealth  and  a  knowledge  of 
distant  countries.  Its  dangers  render  bold  and  intrepid 
prudent  and  brave,  and  give  us  a  feeling  of  the  power 
of  man,  who  successfully  combats  the  rage  of  storms 
and  billows,  while  standing  on  a  mere  plank. 

Before  dismissing  this  topic  we  have  to  add  a  word 
on  the  elementary  influence  of  the  earth  on  man.  It 
is  well  established,  that  a  clear  sky,  and  a  pure  moun- 
tain air  invigorate,  while  a  gloomy  and  moist  atmos- 
phere depresses.     The  sky  of  Italy  and  that  of  England 


56 


ANTHROPOLOGY. 


differ  no  less  than  the  dispositions  of  their  inhabitants. 
The  vapors  arising  from  the  soil,  are  of  importance. 
Pythia,  chewing  a  few  leaves  and  sitting,  on  her  tripod, 
was   believed   in  the  superstition  of  Greece,  to  become 
so  inspired  by  the  vapors  of  the  grotto,  that  she  could 
foresee  the  future. — Next  to  the  atmosphere,  the  food  we 
take,  will  influence  our  disposition.     If  our  digestive 
power  is  strengthened  by  it,  our  spirits  will  rise.     The 
black  soup  of  the  Spartans,  which  their  youth  had  to 
prepare  for  themselves  by  mixing  bread  with  water 
arid  a  few  herbs  was  simple  but  strong  as  was  the  cha- 
racter of  the  Lacedemonians.     An  Athenian  could  not 
relish  it ;  he  desired  more  refined  food.     When  after 
having  been  deprived  for  a  considerable  time  of  a  fa- 
vorite dish,  we  partake  again  moderately  of  it,  we  feel 
cheered;    or  when  after  having  endured  for  hours  a 
burning  thirst,  we  approach  a  little  grove  and  lay  our- 
selves down  by  a  clear  and  cool  fountain  under  shady 
trees,  we  feel  happy  and  cheerful,  and  if  while  thirsty, 
we  would  scarcely  have  listened  to  the  petitions  of  a 
beggar,  we  then  feel  full  of  sympathy  and  kindness. 
Man  may  eat  whatever  nature  offers  as  food  ;  and  what 
animals  cannot  do,  he  may  overcome  the  natural  aver- 
sion, that  he  has  to  certain  kinds  of  food.     The  sol- 
diers of  Napoleon  fed  on  cats  and  horse-flesh.     The 
principal  food,  however,  taken  by  man,  is  derived  from 
the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms,  and  consists  of 
smeat  or  vegetables  ^  ox  flour  ^  milk  and  fruit.     Each  of 
these  have  different  effects  upon  him.     Meat  increasing 
the  activity  of  bile,  renders  him  choleric  and  passionate. 
Food  prepared  of  flour,  favors  a  phlegmatic  disposition, 
and   is   therefore    recommended    by   physicians  as  a 
wholesome  dish  in  warm  climates,  where  the  digestive 
activity  is  much  accelerated.     Milk,  and  what  is  pre- 
pared of  it,  preserves  a  child-like  and  harmless  disposi- 
tion, as  may  be  seen  from  shepherds.     The  Foulahs 
on  the  Alps  of  Africa,  living,  principally  on  milk  and 
butter,  are  said  to  be  a  mild  and  gentle  nation  ;  they 
honor  father  and  mother  above  all,  and  their  highest 
title  is  that  of  Father  or  Mother,  which  they  use  as  we 
do  that  of  Master,  and  Old  Man,  as  we  that  of  Lord. 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  $7 

Finally  vegetables  have  been  commended  at  all  times 
by  persons  of  sedentary  habits.  Pythagoras  recom- 
mended them  to  his  disciples,  and  Newton  abstain- 
ed from  meat  when  he  wished  to  study  deeply,  and  lived 
almost  entirely  on  colewort.  Some  fruits  are  said  to 
strengthen  the  memory,  and  some  herbs  to  excite  the 
organs  of  speech. 

It  is  admitted  by  all,  that  strong  drinks,  and  especially 
distilled  liquors,  weaken  the  memory,  deprive  of  self- 
possession,  undermine  health,  make  men  quarrelsome 
and  passionate,  and  call  forth  brutal  desires  in  a  shock- 
ing manner.  Some  of  them  paralize  the  whole  power 
of  the  soul,  take  away  all  remembrance,  and  while  they 
excite  bodily  activity  and  set  all  the  members  in  mo- 
tion, they  annihilate  the  capacity  of  man  to  control  and 
direct  his  steps,  and  as  though  an  evil  genius  had  gain- 
ed a  magic  dominion  over  the  motions  of  the  body,  the 
soul  sees  the  dangers,  into  which  the  body  is  driven  by 
an  evil  demon,  and  cannot  rescue  it  from  them.  The 
eifects  of  gases,  when  inhaled,  of  tobacco,  (fee,  are  too 
well  known  to  demand  a  particular  notice  here. 

As  man  may  eat  and  drink  what  he  chooses,  so  he 
may  eat  much  or  little.  He  may  eat  more,  and  bear 
hunger  better  than  any  animal.  A  dog  supported 
merely  by  sugar  died  after  a  few  weeks :  geese  fed  on 
starch  were  found  dead  after  twenty-four  days.  But 
the  Arab,  without  any  injurious  effects,  lives  cheer- 
fully on  a  little  gum  for  many  weeks  in  his  desert ; 
Johanna  Nauntonsupported  herself  forseventy-eightdays 
by  the  juice  of  lemon.  Renaud,  on  the  other  hand.  Arch- 
bishop of  Bourges,  slept  only  two  hours,  but  had  eight 
meals  a  day.  Among  the  Kirgises  a  man  of  good  ap- 
petite, eats  a  whole  lamb,  the  tail  of  which  alone  weighs 
twenty  pounds. 

Yet  we  must  be  careful,  lest  our  wish  to  acknowledge 
the  dependence  of  man  on  these  influences,  should  in- 
duce us  to  over-value  them.  The  mild  Ionian  sky  with 
its  soft  and  gentle  breezes  no  doubt  breathed  many  an 
image  into  the  songs  of  Homer,  as  the  high  oaks  and 
vast  heaths  filled  the  breast  of  Ossian  with  the  remem- 
brance of  by-gone  ages,  and  with  visions  of  fantastic 

8 


58.  ANTHROPOLOGY.    ' 

forms  produced  by  the  dim  moonlight  sleeping  on  the 
heaths,  or  by  the  moaning  winds,"as  they  swept  over 
them;  but  neither  the  Ionian  sky  nor  fiie  heaths  of 
Scotland  were  sufficient  to  call  forth  the  genius  of  Ho- 
mer or  of  Ossian.  The  Otomake,  bordering  the  Oron- 
oke,  are  blessed  with  a  beautiful  climate  and  a  rich 
soilj  and  yet  they  prefer  living  on  potter's  clay,  which 
they  roast,  to  cultivating  the  land.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  find  a  noble  set  of  men,  of  great  stature,  of  high 
principles  of  honor  and  of  a  scientific  spirit,  high  in  the 
north,  in  Scandinavia.  The  sky  is  cold,  the  soil  is 
poor  ;  the  winter  liever  recedes  from  the  high  rocks  ; 
the  summer  appears  only  in  the  valleys  and  for  a  short 
time  calls  forth  a  dark  green  along  the  declivities.  Yet 
while  an  uninterrupted  silence  reigns  over  nature,  the 
voice  of  a  lovely,  melancholy  song  greets  the  ear; 
science  and  nobleness  of  character  love  to  dwell  there, 
and  a  firm,  resolute  will,  knows  how  to  meet  the  power 
of  an  unfriendly  climate.  The  constitution  of  man  fits 
him  to  live  every  where  under  heaven,  and  to  support 
his  innate  dignity.  No  region  is  destitute  of  him ; 
though  individuals  may  suffer  from  emigration  and  find 
it  difficult  to  become  acclimated,  the  human  race  is  at 
home  every  where  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Up  to  the 
eightieth  degree  of  North  latitude,  along  the  Polar  ice,  the 
Greeiilander  and  Esquimaux  live  ;  down  to  the  sixtieth 
degree  of  South  latitude,  the  Pesheraes  exist  on  the 
Terra  del  Fuego.  Where  mercury  becomes  malleable, 
where  birds  fall  down  dead  from  the  air,  where  animals 
howl  from  the  effects  of  cold,  there  man  may  live ;  and 
he  can  also  endure  a  heat,  that  is  above  the  warmth  of 
blood. — It  cannot  be  denied,  however,  that  much  de- 
pends on  these  influences  for  the  disposition  of  man, 
though  different  people,  exposed  to  the  same  influ- 
ences, like  plants  growing  on  the  same  soil,  exhibit 
quite  a  different  aspect.  The  Foulahs,  Gallas,  and 
Abyssinians  live  on  the  same  high  Alps  and  yet  a  con- 
siderable difference  is  perceptible  in  their  cultivation 
and  disposition.  The  Mandingoes,  a  numerous  nation, 
of  beautiful  form,  open,  frank  and  cheerful,  refined 
and  simple  in  their  manners,  have  a  republican  govern- 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  ^,59. 

merit,  and  are  the  merchants  of  Northern  Africa.  Close 
to  them  live  the  Negroes,  stupid  and  rude,  voluptuous 
and  cowardly,  rapacious,  and  without  regard  for  justice  % 

or  law. — Considering  such  facts,  we  must  acknowledge, 
that  it  is  not  the  climate  alone,  nor  the  soil,  nor  the 
food,  nor  the  manner  of  living,  which  causes  such  dif- 
ferences in  mankind,  but  that  there  must  be  some  cause 
in  man  himself,  a  cause,  which  will  incline  him  to  form 
certain  habits,  to  seek  for  a  home  that  will  correspond 
with  his  feelings  and  desires.  Correct  as  it  is,  to  con- 
sider customs  and  habits  as  dependent  on  the  natural 
influences  of  a  region,  it  is  also  certainly  true,  that  a 
prevailing  inclination  attracts  man  to  a  particular  re- 
gion. 

THE  DIFFERENT  RACES  OF  MANKIND. 

Man  is  every  where  the  same,  and  there  is  no  specific 
difference  in  the  human  race,  as  there  is  in  animals. 
All  men,  wherever  they  live,  to  whatever  race  they  be- 
long, have  reason;  they /eeZ,  they  think^  they  loill. 
We  cannot  speak  therefore  of  different  kinds  of  men, 
as  we  speak  of  different  kinds  of  animals,  because  that 
which  constitutes  man,  is  the  same  in  all  individuals,  ^ 

and  only  exists  in  a  modified  form.  The  differences 
that  exist  between  the  races  of  men  do  not  proceed  from 
the  absence  or  presence  of  certain  faculties  or  bodily 
organs,  but  from  their  peculiar  strength  or  modification, 
which  cannot  be  explained  by  the  influence  of  chmate, 
but  must  be  ascribed  to  an  innate  difference.  Such  is 
the  color  of  man ;  cold  regions  will  not  bleach  the  ne- 
gro, and  the  southern  heat  of  Africa  will  not  convert 
the  Moor  into  a  black  man.  The  disposition  of  the  ■ 
mind,  size  of  the  body,  formation  of  the  skull,  the  pro- 
portions of  the  face  and  language,  exhibit  likewise  such 
strongly  marked  differences,  as  will  enable  us  to  distin- 
guish by  them  one  race  from  another.  These  different  . 
qualities  may  be  anticipated  before  the  birth  of  a  child, 
and  nothing  can  extinguish  them  except  amalgamation. 
Yet  while  these  differences  cannot  be  denied,  they  are 
not  such  as  exist  between  two  species  of  the  same  kind. 


60.  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

Hence  it  is,  that  while  in  the  world  of  animals  every 
individual,  the  infusoria  excepted,  is  connected  with  its 
genus  by  the  species  to  which  it  belongs,  as  the  single 
ourang-outang  by  his  species  with  the  monkey-kind, 
every  individual  man  is  in  connection  with  mankind,  di- 
rectly through  himself  and  not  by  a  species.  We  can- 
not speak  therefore  of  different  species  of  mankind,  but 
only  of  various  races.  By  the  term  race,  we  under- 
stand that  union  of  individuals,  which  is  brought  about 
by  mere  ^propagation,  independent  of  history,  or  affec- 
tion, or  common  interest.  It  is  certain  that  these  races 
exist,  but  it  is  difficult  to  say  how  they  all  spring  from 
one  pair.  This  difficulty  has  led  many  to  consider  the 
different  races  as  having  sprung  from  so  many  different 
roots,  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  reduce  to  one 
common  origin  and  which  are  united  only  by  intellect- 
ual and  moral  elements,  by  reason  and  will.  Yet  there 
have  not  been  wanting  those,  who  with  great  acuteness 
have  philosophically  proved,  what  we  know  through 
revelation  concerning  the  origin  of  the  human  race. 
No  less  difficult  is  it  to  determine  the  exact  number  of 
the  human  races,  because  the  varieties  of  tribes,  and  the 
transitions  from  one  race  to  another  are  so  many,  that 
they  become  easily  confounded  with  each  other,  when 
we  attempt  to  classify  them.  Hence  it  is,  that  there  are 
so  many  different  divisions  made  by  the  learned  Lin- 
naeus, and  while  Leibnitz  admitted  only  four  races, 
Meiners,  two ;  Pownal,  three  ;  Hunter,  four  ;  Buffon  and 
Herder,  six ;  Hegel,  three  ;  Kent,  Blumenbach  and  Virey, 
five.  The  latter  is  the  more  commonly  adopted  view. 
According  to  this  we  have  the  Caucasian,  American, 
Malay,  Mongol  and  Negro  races.  A  delineation  of  their 
bodily  forms  belongs  rather  to  the  science  called  Na- 
tural Description  of  Man  than  to  Anthropology,  as  the 
question  concerning  the  origin  of  the  human  race, 
where  7  when  7  how  7  and  by  what  means  it  was  called 
into  existence  belongs  to  the  Natural  History  of  Man, 
two  sciences  that  have  received  the  particular  attention 
of  the  celebrated  Blumenbach. 

It  would  be  superfluous  here  to  give  a  characteristic 
of  the  disposition,  intellect,  and  moral  capacities  of  the 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  61 

different  races,  as  every  good  geography,  and  especially 
every  philosophy  of  history,  furnishes  one  more  com- 
plete than  our  space  would  permit  us  to  give.  All  that 
is  required  here,  is  to  acknowledge  a  permanent  distinc- 
tion between  the  races,  which  not  only  affects  the  body, 
but  also  the  mind. 

NATIONAL  DIFFERENCES. 

1.  Cruelty  and  an  absence  of  love  and  mercy,  and 
of  humane  feeling,  ignorance  and  superstition,  indo- 
lence, arbitrariness,  and  oppression  of  the  weaker,  cha- 
racterize the  savage.  Morality,  a  sense  of  obligation 
and  duty,  are  not  acknowledged ;  and  the  barba- 
rian, as  he  does  what  is  pleasing  and  useful  to  him,  so 
he  prevails  by  the  arm  of  strength.  Nor  has  he  any 
feeling  of  personal  respect  or  any  regard  for  truth,  beau- 
ty, and  honor,  but  destroys  whatever  will  not  serve  his 
sensual  desires.  The  first  step  to  civilization  is  a  wil- 
lingness to  submit  our  individual  will  to  laws  and  du-. 
ties,  and  to  seek  for  liberty  no  longer  in  our  own  arbit- 
rariness. To  the  savage  this  step  seems  to  involve  the 
loss  of  his  liberty,  for  genuine  liberty  is  unknown  to 
him.  A  limitation  of  selfish  desires  and  passions,  a  re- 
straint of  arbitrariness  and  mere  good  pleasure,  is  to  him 
a  limitation  of  liberty,  and  hence  he  hates  laws  and  du- 
ties. Fond  of  his  liberty,  he  cannot  think  of  relinquish- 
ing his  stage  of  cultivation  for  one,  that  in  his  view  of- 
fers the  opposite  of  what  he  desires. 

2.  Savages  have  no  organized  government.  All  life 
is  perfect  in  proportion  as  it  is  well  organized.  The 
animal  life  begins  with  that  of  the  infusorium,  but  it  is 
highly  imperfect  in  that  stage,  and  equally  as  imper- 
fectly organized.  There  is  no  heart  visible,  no  brain, 
no  liver,  there  are  no  functions  of  different  systems,  and 
motion  is  the  only  expression  of  life  in  these  little  ani-. 
mals.  So  it  may  be  said  the  savage  has  a  government, 
but  it  is  only  the  beginning  of  that  of  civilization. 
Whatever  is  organized  has,  on  the  one  hand,  identity  of 
life  or  a  common  soul,  a  common  spirit,  and  on  the 
other,  a  variety  of  members,- through  which  this  one 


62  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

life  is  diffused,  and  all  of  which  represent  it.  These 
members  or  organs  differ  from  each  other,  as  the  branch 
from  the  trunk,  and  yet  they  have  the  same  life.  Each 
has  a  peculiar  office,  and  yet  all  serve  but  one  purpose. 
A  well  organized  government  has  likewise  but  one  soul — 
morality  and  liberty.  The  energy  of  this  soul  must 
show  itself  by  creating  a  number  of  distinct  institutions 
and  offices,  each  of  which  differs  from  the  other  by  a 
particular  activity  allotted  to  it,  while  all  activities  and 
all  offices  are  united  by  proceeding  from  the  same  com- 
mon soul,  and  in  being  pervaded  by  it.  In  such  a  gov- 
ernment all  are  co-ordinate  to  each  other,  and  subordi- 
nate only  to  law  ;  in  such  a  government  alone,  it  is  pos- 
sible that  occupations  and  ranks  in  the  greatest  variety 
can  co-exist  without  any  interference,  and  that  all  the 
wants  of  man  may  be  satisfied,  for  in  it  each  want  has  its 
corresponding  organ  by  which  it  receives  its  satisfaction. 
Farmers  and  merchants,  teachers  and  politicians,  me- 
chanics and  all  other  classes  of  men  are  so  many  or- 
gans of  civil  life,  all  of  which,  while  each  has  an  ex- 
istence of  its  own,  and  seems  to  be  active  for  itself  like 
the  leaves  of  a  large  tree  sustain  and  support  the  whole. 
Plato  illustrates  this  beautifully  by  showing  the  evil 
consequences  that  would  result  to  one  who  while  he 
had  capacity  and  skill  for  making  shoes,  would  also 
have  to  be  his  own  tailor  and  carpenter  and  black- 
smith. He  certainly  would  do  nothing  properly.  But 
if  he-makes  shoes  for  himself  and  others,  and  if  others, 
skilled  in  tailoring,  in  the  business  of  the  carpenter,  <fec. 
make  his  dresses,  and  build  his  houses,  all  will  be  better 
•off;  for  each  will  attend  to  that  for  which  he  has  a  pe- 
culiar talent. 

3.  Savages  have  no  Ais^ory.  History  is  the  intellect- 
ual process  that  begins  with  the  less  perfect,  and  passes 
over  to  the  more  perfect,  for  it  develops  what  is  in  man. 
The  plant  exists  already  as  a  possible  existence  in  the 
^erm,  but  undeveloped.  Its  development  exhibits,  by 
various  forms  from  the  root  up  to  the  seed,  all  that  is 
contained  in  the  germ.  Though  the  seed  gains  nothing 
by  this  process,  since  it  terminates  merely  in  a  multi- 
plication of  seed  like  itself,  and  having  observed  it  once, 


# 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  63 

we  may  know  all  the  possible  forms  which  it  has  the 
power  of  producing.  Yet  the  life  of  the  plant  is  mo- 
notonous, always  passing  through  the  same  course ; 
and  hence  it  cannot  be  said  to  have  a  history,  because 
it  does  not  improve  nor  deteriorate,  and  one  plant  is  as 
complete  and  perfect  as  any  other  of  the  same  species. 
But  man  can  increase  in  perfection  unlimited  ;  the  last 
stage  he  has  attained  in  the  cultivation  of  his  mind 
becomes  always  the  first  of  a  new  development.  This 
may  be  made  clear  by  an  example  from  nature.  For 
here  we  see,  that  the  plastic  power  of  the  plant  first 
produces  a  single  leaf;  but  this  leaf  grows  up  into  a 
trunk ;  this  agam  branches  out  into  twigs,  and  the 
twists  produce  leaves  &c.,  so  that  always  the  last  pro- 
duction contains  the  germ  of  a  new  one.  Yet  in  the 
vegetable  kingdom,  the  last  production  only  repeats  the 
preceding  one;  the  plant  is  and  always  will  be  con- 
fined to  particular  limits.  History,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  a  constant  tendency  to  remove  the  limits  of  the 
present,  to  go  beyond  them,  to  improve  and  to  advance. 
This  progress  does  not  disregard  the  contents  of  the  past, 
but  it  will  include  them  when  nations  do  not  become 
stationary,  and  fix  themselves  on  the  customs  and  habits 
of  the  past  as  the  Chinese.  So  the  trunk  does  not  an- 
nihilate the  root,  though  it  is  a  higher  development,  but 
it  truly  preserves  it.  History  includes  the  past  by  mak- 
ing us  conscious  of  what  it  was.  As  long  as  we  live 
in  the  spirit  of  an  age,  interest  in  it  and  predilection  for 
it  will  not  permit  us  to  perceive  its  real  worth,  but  we 
generally  overvalue  it.  When  from  the  elements  con- 
tained in  it,  the  spirit  is  forced  to  assume  a  new  form 
and  produce  new  customs  and  views  ;  we  become  con- 
scious both  of  what  was  good  or  objectionable  in  the 
old,  because  then  we  shall  be  free  and  impartial  in  our 
judgment.  So  when  a  strong  inclination,  love,  for  ex- 
ample, holds  us  chained,  we  shall  not  be  conscious  of 
its  nature  while  it  reigns  over  us,  but  no  sooner  are  we 
freed  from  it,  than  it  becomes  known  and  manifest  to  us 
in  all  its  qualities.  From  all  this  it  follows,  that  when 
the  many  intellectual  capacities  slumbering  in  man  are 
historically  developed,  he  must  become  conscious  of 


s? 


m 


64  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

them,  and  that  what  before  he  possessed  only  by  na- 
ture, will  then  come  within  the  sphere  of  his  voluntary 
action.  He  thus  not  only  gains,  but  is  essentially 
changed  and  enriched,  and  the  once-gained  wealth  of 
ideas  is  never  lost,  but  is  constantly  pressing  onward. 
Man  is  born  free,  but  unless  he  is  conscious  of  his  free- 
dom he  does  not  possess  it.  Again,  in  nature  every 
thing  develops  itself  peaceably  without  a  struggle ; 
but  man,  conscious  of  every  change  in  himself,  has  to 
undergo  conflicts  in  making  these  changes.  The  idea 
of  development  pre-supposes  some  thing  to  be  developed  ; 
this  must  exist  previously,  and  remain  the  same  in  the 
development,  only  that  what  there  is  in  it  is  drawn  out. 
With  man,  reason  and  will  are  to  be  unfolded  in  all 
their  riches.  Both,  in  the  savage,  are  sunk  in  the  life  of 
nature,  which  by  its  energy,  and  by  the  fullness  of  its 
sensual  enjoyments,  keeps  him  in  bondage.  Reason  and 
will  ought  to  break  loose  from  this  life,  but  being  satis- 
fied with  their  state,  they  would  act  against  themselves 
in  doing  so.  Hence  the  savage  has  no  history,  for  he 
is  what  he  always  has  been.  Civilization  is  connected 
with  many  struggles,  all  of  which  form  the  theme  of 
history.  History  is,  in  what  it  records,  the  development 
of  mind  ;  it  shows  how  the  savage  consciousness  be- 
came more  and  more  disciplined,  its  powers  drawn  out, 
its  mere  possibilities  realized ;  and  how  a  rude,  passion- 
ate, arbitrary  will,  became  refined  and  subject  to  the  con- 
trol of  higher  authority.  The  history  of  a  nation  is  its 
character;  if  it  be  humane,  the  nation  will  be  so ;  if 
bloody  and  rude,  like  that  of  Rome,  the  nation  will  be 
cruel ;  for  history  only  develops  what  is  in  man. 

Civilized  nations  differ  then  from  savages  by  morali- 
ty in  its  most  extensive  sense,  by  organized  govern- 
ments, and  by  having  a  history.  Nations  differ  from 
each  other  as  races  and  tribes,  but  their  national  differ- 
ences are  historical  and  consequently  known  to  them- 
selves, and  thus  they  lose  their  strangeness  and  inimical 
power  of  opposition.  These  differences  are  expressed  in 
the  national  manner  of  thinking  and  acting,  in  literature 
and  art,  language  and  style,  customs  and  habits,  morals 
and  civil  laws,  in  desires  and  peculiar  inclinations. 


-'i 


9 
ANTHROPOLOGY.  65 


All  of  them  enter  into  the  habits  of  man,  and  whether 
a  person  is  born  of  one  or  another  nation,  is  by  no 
means  a  matter  of  indifference.  The  Roman,  even 
though  the  doctrine  of  a  metamorphosis  were  true,  could 
not  at  once  be  an  Englishman.  Anthropology  has, 
therefore,  to  acknowledge  a  modification  of  mind,  pro- 
duced by  national  difference  ;  while  history  has  to  give 
a  delineation  of  national  characters. 

M- 
aiTALITIES  OF  THE    MIND,  PRODUCED   BY   SEXUAL 
DIFFERENCE. 

This  difference  is  one  that  in  the  most  decisive  manner 
affects  both  body  and  mind.  It  is  not  transitory,  but 
remains  the  same  throughout  life,  so  that  many  theolo- 
gians have  been  led  to  ask  whether  the  two  sexes — 
somethinj;  analoo^ous  to  which  we  discover  in  -the 
Negative  and  Positive  poles,  in  contraction  and  expan- 
sion, in  the  relation  of  the  sun  to  the  earth, — will  not  be 
continued  after  death.  The  sexual  difference  mani- 
fests itself, 

1.  Physically.  The  whole  organization  in  aZ/,  and 
not  only  in  some  of  its  parts  is  different  in  man  and 
woman.  Bones  and  muscles  are  stronger  and  more  an- 
gular  in  man,  and  more  tender  and  rounder  in  woman, 
while  some  are  larger  in  the  latter  than  in  the  former. 
Again,  not  only  the  anatomical  and  organical  systems, 
but  also  their  functions  differ  in  both.  In  man  the  ar- 
terial and  cerebral  systems  prevail,  and  with  them  irri- 
tability ;  in  woman  the  venous  and  ganglion  systems  and 
with  them  plasticity  and  sensibility.  So  the  lungs  are 
stronger,  and  hence  the  voice  fuller,  and  respiration 
more  copious  in  man,  while  the  liver  and  its  activity 
prevails  in  woman.  Skin  and  hair  are  more  soft  in 
woman  than  in  man,  and  it  is  evident,  that  the  body  of 
the  one  is  better  qualified  than  that  of  the  other  to  en- 
dure labor. 

2.  Psychologically.  Man  and  woman  differ  in  moral 
disposition.  Thus  as  to  woman  :  Chastity  in  feeling  and 
imagination,  in  word  and  action,  is  the  principal  virtue 
that  either  of  choice  or  unconsciously  reigns  in  the 

9 


I 


• 


It' 


66  ,  ,      ANTHROPOLOGY. 

bosom  of  woman.  Tt  is  tender  and  delicate,  like  an 
exotic  plant,  and  cannot  endure  exposure.  Hence  wo- 
man shrinks  from  appearing  in  public,  whether  in 
the  pulpit  or  the  rostrum,  or  with  the  sword  in  the  hand 
as  the  Maid  of  Orleans.  The  family  is  her  sphere  of 
action,  there  she  arranges  and  orders  what  man  gathers, 
and  with  propriety  and  taste  embellishes  the  house, 
and  renders  it  attractive.  She  desires  whatever  in- 
creases domestic  comfort,  as  furniture  and  dress,  order 
and  cleanliness,  full  chests  and  drawers. — Love  is  the 
second  prevailing  virtue,  that  adorns  her  character. 
Without  it  she  is  like  a  closed  blossom  which  exhibits 
neither  its  beauty  or  its  fragrance ;  love  reveals  her  inward 
mystery.  She  may  love  and  not  be  aware  of  it,  and 
such  love  is  tender  and  innocent.  But  when  once  she 
loves,  she  gives  her  whole  heart  and  person  without  re- 
serve. She  enters  into  all  the  wishes  and  views  of 
him  whom  she  has  chosen.  Plinly  says  of  his  wife, 
"  she  loves  science,  because  she  loves  me.  She  carries 
with  her  my  writings,  she  reads  them,  she  commits 
them  to  memory.  She  sings  my  verses,  she  composes 
her  own  melodies  to  them,  and  needs  no  other  teacher 
than  love." — Patience  is  the  third  trait  in  her  char- 
acter and  she  is  perhaps  never  more  beautiful,  than  when 
the  tear  trembles  through  a  smile.  Sympathy  and  com- 
passion, kindness  and  mildness,  cheerfulness  and  warm- 
heartednesis,  are  charms  thrown  around  her  by  nature. 
3.  Me7ital  qualities.  Here  Feeling  predominates  ; 
she  receives  easily,  and  appropriates  quickly  ;  she  forms 
what  she  receives  and  feels  herself  attracted  by  all  that 
can  touch  the  heart.  Her  thinking  rests  more  on  feel- 
ing and  on  faith,  and  is  not  directed  to  skeptical  inves- 
tigations. It  is  not  distinguished  for  productiveness, 
for  if  we  look  to  the  fine  arts,  we  cannot  discover  a 
single  woman  who  has  established  a  new  school  either 
in  painting,  in  music,  or  sculpture.  Some  women  have 
become  celebrated  for  their  skill  in  imitation,  as  Angeli- 
ca Kauffman  in  painting,  or  as  the  nuns  of  the  Nether- 
lands in  musical  concerts  ;  but  imitation  as  well  as 
learning  rests  on  faithful  reception.  In  architecture  no 
woman  ever  attempted  anything ;  in  music  we  have  no 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  67 

female  composer  of  celebrity ;  in  poetry,  the  ancients 
kneW  one  Sappho,  but  no  female  Homer  or  Pindar, 
and  our  modern  female  poets  have  done  little  in  the 
highest  departments  of  poetry,  the  Drama,  Epic,  Lyric. 
The  sphere  of  woman  being  feeling  and  beauty ,  she 
is  not  expected  to  become  learned  but  cultivated. 
Cultivation  is  no  less  valuable  and  difficult  of  attain- 
ment than  learning ;  the  former  rests  on  taste,  the  latter 
often  merely  on  memory.  Yet  there  have  been  learn- 
ed ladies,  that  had  good  taste,  fine  judgment,  and 
quick  intuition,  as  Madame  de  Stael.  Law  and  juri- 
dical knowledge  seems  particularly  attractive  to  them, 
perhaps  because  they  love  order.  At  all  events  it  is 
remarkable,  that  it  was  a  woman  who  presided  over 
right  and  order  among  the  Greeks,  Themis,  the  moth- 
er of  the  Horae  and  Parcae.  Her  servants  likewise, 
were  women,  the  Erinnyae,  Dike  and  Nemesis  Adras- 
tea.  Demeter  gave  statutes  to  cities,  and  Egeria  fur- 
nished Numa  Pompilius  with  his  laws.  Welleda  did 
the  same  in  the  north,  an*d  the  old  Germans  commenc- 
ed no  war  without  having  consulted  their  women. 
Deborah  gave  judgment  during  forty  years  under  the 
palm-trees  on  Mount  Ephraim.  And  in  modern  times 
we  see  a  Mathilda  of  Tuscany  encourage  the  revival  of 
the  Pandects,  and  give  celebrity  by  them  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Bologna.  Two  daughters  of  professor  Aur 
dreas,  both  of  them  married  to  lawyers,  lectured  to 
large  audiences  from  the  rostrum,  when  their  husbands 
were  absent.  So  two  other  Itahan  ladies  were  known 
to  appear  in  disguise  on  the  rostrum,  and  their  lectures 
on  Law  were  well  received  by  numerous  students. 
Many  women  have  obtained  the  degree  of  LL.  D.,  and 
in  France  many  have  published  large  works  on  Law. 
In  mathematics  on  the  other  hand,  astronomy,  meta- 
physics, history  or  medicine,  none  scarcely  have  acquired 
celebrity.  And  this  is  not  accidental,  not  because  no 
opportunity  has  offered  itself  to  their  productive  genius,— 
genius  will  always  find  its  way — but  because  it  is  their 
highest  happiness  to  be  mothers. 


6S  '•     •♦  ANTHROPOLOGY. 


OF  MAN. 


1.  Moral  disposition.  In  man  thought  and  will  pre- 
vail, and  a  desire  for  liberty  and  honor.  He  must  act 
and  work,  toil  and  labor,  and  can  preserve  his  dignity 
and  standing  in  the  world  only  by  acting  from  princi- 
ples and  clear  comprehensions.  He  is  to  provide  for 
the  family,  to  protect  it,  procure  for  it  honor  and  res- 
pectability. If  patience  adorns  woman,  courage  be- 
longs to  man.  In  some  languages  his  name  is  derived 
from  the  same  root  from  which  the  words  for  courage 
and  virtue  were  taken.  Public  life  is  the  sphere  of 
man  ;  there  he  is  to  labor  and  to  execute  his  ideas.  As 
he  is  to  drain  swamps,  to  clear  woods,  to  subdue  wild 
nature,  to  destroy  rapacious  animals,  and  render  cli- 
mates mild,  and  inhospitable  regions  habitable,  so  he 
is  to  adorn  the  pulpit  and  the  rostrum,  the  judge's 
bench  and  the  art  of  the  physician,  and  to  cultivate 
music,  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  poetry,  and 
science.  As  Hercules  represents  the  former,  so  Apollo 
the  latter  employment.  If  woman  is  mild  and  forgiv- 
ing, man  must  he  just  in  governing  himself,  his  family, 
and  all  intrusted  to  his  charge.  If  woman  always  ob- 
serves what  is  right  from  a  sense  of  propriety,  man 
must  insist  on  the  execution  of  the  laws,  when  they  have 
been  violated.  Independence  renders  man,  faithfulness 
and  confidence  render  woman  happy.  Man  desires 
what  strengthens  his  feeling  of  iniportance.  The  horse, 
the  sword,  the  chase  and  war,  riches  and  titles,  honors, 
influence  and  power,  are  welcomed  by  him.  Woman 
may  shed  tears  without  words,  man  must  connect  ac- 
tion with  them. 

2.  Mental  qualities.  Productiveness,  which  has 
no  limits  in  any  science  or  art,  as  far  as  they  are  acces- 
sible, to  the  human  mind,  characterizes  the  mind  of 
man.  Every  invention  in  mechanical  art,  every 
style  of  the  fine  arts,  every  advance  in  science  has  as 
yet  been  eflected  by  man.  It  is  his  office  to  produce 
and  realize  ideas  in  politcs,  in  arts,  and  science ;  to  know 


ANTHROPOLOGfY.  69 

and  investigate,  understand  and  represent.  Only  one 
government  has  as  yet  been  found  that  was  entirely 
managed  by  women,  and  this  among  the  negroes  in 
Africa. 

When  we  look  on  the  characters  of  man  and  woman, 
we  cannot  but  perceive  that  neither  is  perfect  by  itself, 
bat  that  each  needs  the  other  for  its  perfection.  Each 
possesses  something  which  is  wanted  in  the  other,  and 
hence  only  their  union  forms  a  complete  character.  Nei- 
ther can  endure  therefore  to  remain  by  itself.  Strength 
and  courage  rest  in  man,  mildness  and  tenderness  in 
woman  ;  united,  tliese  qualities  form  one  whole,  separa^ 
ted,  the  former  will  degenerate  into  rudeness  and  ferocity, 
and  the  latter  into  inconsistency  and  fickleness.  Hence 
the  one  must  be  softened  by  tender  emotions,  and  the 
other  strengthened  by  firmness. — Again  :  Cold  under- 
standing may  easily  become  too  calculating,  too  arith- 
metical, too  selfish,  when  not  refined  by  generous  emo- 
tions of  kindness  and  love.  The  timidity  of  woman 
or^  the  other  hand,  her  fearfulness  needs  a  prop  on  which 
to  rest.— The  union  of  both  in  one  is  externally  repre- 
sented by  marriage.  Through  it  the  strength  of  man 
is  rendered  mild  by  the  gentleness  of  woman,  his  cour- 
age is  moderated  by  her  softness  and  timidity,  and  his 
understanding  receives  warmth  of  feeling.  So  the 
qualities  of  woman  receive  their  finish  by  their  union 
with  those  of  man,  for  her  feeling  obtains  proper  nour- 
rishment  through  his  intercourse  with  the  world,  as  her 
timidity  relies  safely  on  his  strength.  Thus  both  in- 
tended for  each  other  are  truly  what  they  ought  to  be 
when  united,  and  the  object  of  the  original  difference 
between  man  and  woman,  is  the  richest  and  closest 
union  of  both. 

This  union,  which  commences  with  love,  has  its 
pledge  and  visible  appearance  in  the  child ;  for  the 
mental  qualities  and  moral  capacities  of  both  father  and 
mother,  continue  themselves  in  their  children,  and  these 
appear  as  an  individual  identityj  so  that,  what  before 
was  given  to  tioo,  is  now  represented  by  one.  This 
we  perceive  daily  by  recognizing  in  a  child  some  quali- 
ties of  the  father,  and  others  of  the  mother.     The  con- 


7d  ANTHROPOLOGlf. 

scioiisness  of  this  fact  constitutes  family-attachment. 
It  is  true,  that  the  sons  of  celebrated  men  often  appear    . 
to  be  without  extraordinary  degree  of  talent,  and  again-'»^ 
that  sons  of  men,  little  known,  exhibit  uncommon  ca- 
pacity.    But  it  must  be   admitted  that  in  the  former 
case  the  father  may  have  exhausted  the  inheritance  of 
his  nature,  and  that  the  greatness  of  his  name  induces 
us  to  apply  too  high  a  measure,  by  which  to  judge  of 
the  talents  of  the  son  ;  as  was  the  case  with  the  sons  of 
Goethe  and  Schiller.     In  the  latter  case  the  natural  ca- 
pacities of  the  father  may  not  have  been  developed,  or 
the  son  inherited  his  bright  genius  from  the  mother. 
So  Goethe  says  that  he  inherited  his  love  of  poetry  from 
his  mother,  and  many  other  traits  in  his  character,  as,  for 
example,  an  aversion  to  all  violent  impressions,  a  rich 
vein  of  ever-teeming  wit,  of  humor,  <fec. ;  these  we  recog- 
nize in  that  of  his  mother.  Madame  Letitia  Bonaparte 
had  four  sons,  all  of  whom  were  energetic  and  men  of 
talents;  her  husband  is  littleknown,  and  no  doubt  the 
sons  inherited  what  they  possessed  from  her.  Hence  the 
-great  importance  of  knowing  the  mother,  her  disposition, 
her  character  and  talents,  when  we  desire  to  judge  cor- 
rectly of  distinguished  man.     We  come  then,  to  the  na- 
tural qualities  of  the  individual. 

The  natural  qualities  of  the  individual  depend  on  all 
the  influences  we  have  before  represented  from  that  of 
climate  to  that  of  sex,  including  those  of  race,  nation, 
occupation,  &c.  The  qualities  that  exclusively  belong 
to  the  individual  are  temperaments^  mejital  capacities 
and  idiosyncrasy. 

TEMPERAMENTS. 

The  soul  is  not  only  connected  with  the  body,  but  they 
are  interfused  so  that  the  nature  of  the  one  must  afiect 
that  of  the  other.  When  all  the  functions  of  assimila- 
tion are  fresh  and  vigorous,  when  respiration  is  easy, 
when  digestion  and  circulation  of  blood,  excretion  and 
secretion  are  regular  and  natural,  then  the  sensations 
will  be  full  and  lively,  the  whole  mind  will  be  youthful, 
and    feel,  think  and    will  with  energy.     When,   on 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  71 

the  other  hand,  we  suffer  much  from  rheumatism, 
headache,  from  shortness  of  breath  or  dyspepsy,  the 
spirits  will  be  low,  the  mind  feel  depressed,  and  espe- 
cially the  system  of  sensibility  must  become  weakened. 
The  will  and  resoluteness  of  man  may,  in  some  degree, 
overcome  such  difficulties  and  sufferings.  Tieck  is 
much  afflicted  with  rheumatism,  and  yet  his  poetry  is 
cheerful  and  humorous.  Beethoven  lost  his  hearing, 
and  yet  he  continued  to  compose  the  most  sublime 
works.  Buttman  could  not  bear  the  slightest  breath  of 
cold  air,  and  nevertheless  he  was  constantly  engaged  in 
revising,  correcting,  and  completing  his  excellent  Greek 
grammar  and  other  works.  Such  instances  are,  how- 
ever, rare,  and  are  exceptions  to  the  general  rule. 

The  body  of  man  consists  of  three  principal  vital  sys- 
tems. The  first  of  them  is  that  of  sensibility.  By  it 
man  feels  himself  and  the  woild  around  him.  Its  prin- 
cipal organ  is  the  brain  and  nervous  system.  The  sec- 
ond is  that  o{  ii^ritahility.  Its  tendency  is  to  resist  the 
influences  exercised  by  eternal  objects  upon  man,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  bring  them  into  subjection  to  him. 
Its  organ  is  the  heart  and  muscular  system.  The  third 
is  that  of  reproductiveness.  By  it  our  body  preserves 
itself,  and  in  so  doing,  seizes  on  whatever  may  serve  it 
as  food.     Its  organ  is  the  liver  and  intestinal  system. 

Through  these  systems  the  body  is  connected  with 
the  soul,  and  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  this  con- 
nection is  modified  by  the  prevalence  of  the  one  or  the 
other,  is  called  temperament.  This  word  is  derived 
from  temperare^  which  means  to  unite  or  moderate 
two  extremes  ;  and  hence  the  term  temperature  as 
applied  to  the  atmosphere.  Temperament  might,  there- 
fore, be  defined  to  be  the  peculiar  connection  of  soul  and 
body  in  an  individual.  This  connection  becomes  pe- 
culiar by  the  prevailing  fluids  of  the  body,  their  lym- 
phatic, sanguine,  choleric,  and  bilious  nature  ;  by  the 
prevailing  elements,  as  water,  air,  fire  or  earth  ;  by  the 
nature  of  the  blood,  which  is  either  cold  or  warm,  light 
or  heavy  ;  by  that  of  the  fibers,  which  are  either  lax  or 
firm,  soft  or  hard.  All  these  must  affect  our  feeling, 
this  our  thinkings  and  this  again  our  will. 


72  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  the  origin  of  temperaments. 
All  empirical  knowledge  and  sensual  desires  are  quali- 
fied by  sensation.     Sensation  is  impossible  without  the 
senses,  and  these  are  impossible  without  nerves.     All 
our  knowledge  is  accompanied  by  feeling,  and  all  the 
actions  of  our  will  pre-suppose  both  feeling  and  know- 
ledge.    The  more  perfect  and  easy  the  functions  of  the 
nervous  system  are,  the  less  they  are  interrupted  or  in- 
terfered with,  the  greater,  stronger  and  livelier  will  be 
the  power  of  feeling,  thinking  and  willing.     For  the 
more  easy  it  is  to  excite  our  senses,  the  more  clear  our 
sensations  must  be ;  the  more  clear  the  sensations,  the 
more  definite  and    accurate  ^our  knowledge,  and  the  - 
stronger  the  feeling  connected  with  it,  and  the  volition 
proceeding  from  it.     Now  if  the  muscular  system  pre-  \ 
vails,  the  nervous  will  be  proportionally  weak.     Her- 
cules, in  the  Grecian  mythology,  had  strong  muscles, 
but  was  not  distinguished  for  strength  of  mind.     Apollo, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  physically  weaker,  but  prevail- 
ed by  clearness  of  thought.     If  the  system  of  reproduc- 
tiveness  prevails  over  the  others,  a  tendency  to  rest  or* 
inactivity  becomes  perceptible.     We  have /owr  different 
temperaments  ;    the  sanguine  stands  connected  with 
the  system  of  sensibility  ;  the  melancholic  with  that  of  ^ 
reproductiveness ;  while  the  system  of  irritability  by  . 
its  twofold  relation  to  the  arterial  and  venous  blood  pro- 
duces the  choleric  temperament, „w hen  the  arterial,  and  ' 
the  phlegmatic^  when  the  venous  blood  prevails. 

The  temperaments  do  not  directly  originate  in  the 
individual,  but  in  circumstances  preceding  its  existence, 
in  climate,  locality,  in  the  season  of  birth,  <fec.  Hence 
many  feel  inclined  to  consider  them  as  accidental. 
Every  man,  they  say,  must  have  a  temperament,  but 
which  of  the  four  seems  to  be  wholly  accidental.  So 
every  man  must  have  eyes,  but  whether  they  are  blue 
or  black  is  accidental.  Children  of  the  same  parents 
may  have  very  different  temperaments,  as,  for  instance, 
those  of  Madame  Letitia  Bonaparte.  Though  it  may 
be  accidental,  whether  a  man  is  born  with  the  choleric 
or  melancholic  temperament,  he  will  retain  it  through 
life,  and  though  the  phlegmatic  may  modify  his  tern- 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  73 

perament  by  chano^e  of  climate,  by  food,  and  drink,  he 
cannot  change  it  into  the  sanguine.  Yet  while  none 
can  change  his  temperament,  he  may  subdue  it,  and  ex- 
ercise it  as  he  pleases. .  With  some  its  power  is  natural- 
ly weak.  Leibnitz  knew  not,  whether  he  was  choleric, 
or  sanguine,  or  phlegmatic.  Nor  does  any  temperament 
appear  in  its  perfect  purity,  but  as  the  prevalence  of 
one  system  does  not  exclude  the  functions  of  the  others, 
so  the  phlegmatic  does  not  destroy  entirely  the  symp- 
toms of  the  melancholic,  but  frequently  they  approach 
so  near  each  other,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  the 
one  from  the  other.  And  again  the  same  temperament 
will  be  differently  modified  in  different  persons. 

THE  SANGUINE  TEMPERAMENT. 

This  is  the  temperament  of  enjoyment  and  pleasure. 
It  has  great  susceptibility  to  impressions  of  every 
kind  so  that  the  person  is  ready  and  longs  to  receive 
them  ;  but  many  impressions  cannot  take  possession 
at  the  same  time  of  the  same  breast,  one  extinguishes 
the  other  and  tiie  last  is  always  the  most  vigorous. 
This  temperament  partakes  of  the  nature  of  the  air, 
which  by  its  great  elasticity  yields  to  every  pressure, 
and  directly  afterwards  regains  its  former  state.  Liveli- 
ness cheerfulness  and  a  never-ceasing  desire  for  en- 
joyment characterize  it  and  its  mobility  is  like  that  of  the 
birds,  that  constantly  live  in  and  are  filled  with  the  air. 
An  individual  of  sanguine  temperament  finds  it  difli- 
cult  to  govern  his  temperament,  to  conquer  its  tenden- 
cy to  levity  and  to  trifling  employment. — Persons  of 
this  temperament  incline  strongly  to  Belles-Lettres,  but 
prefer  the  brilliant,  the  pleasant,  and  the  copious  to  the 
more  solid,  the  truly  beautiful  and  simple.  It  is  the 
temperament  of  the  French  nation  ;  though  fond  of  the 
fine  arts,  they  have  not  produced  any  thing  very  re- 
markable either  in  Painting,  Sculpture  or  Music.  The 
system  of  materialism  is  principally  favored  by  them 
in  Philosophy.  Their  courage  is  full  of  fire  for  the  mo- 
ment, but  soon  passes  by ;  their  emotions  are  quick,  but 
short ;  they  are  careless,  communicative,  benevolent, 

10 


74 


ANTHROPOLOGY. 


.^ 


but  feel  averse  to  labor  and  pain.    La  Fontaine  was  san- 
guine.    His  poetry  bears  the  slanop  of  this  character. 

THE  CHOLERIC  TEMPERAMENT. 

This  may  be  called  the  temperament  of  action.  It 
resists  external  impressions,  and  re-acjs  on  every  thing 
that  affects  it.  Feeling  its  power,  it  is  courageous,  de- 
termined and  possesses  much  energy  and  perseverance. 
Its  nature  reseriibles  that  of  fire  ;  nothing  is  more  ener- 
getic and  more  active  than  fire  ;  its  activity  does  not 
bluster  like  that  of  the  wind,  it  does  not  stagnate  like 
water,  but  continues  without  interruption,  until  the  ele- 
ments of  its  existence  are  consumed.  So,  little  insects 
that  depend  much  on  the  warmth  of  the  suri,  are  inde- 
i^atigable  in  their  ruinous  activity  and  though  small, 
they  are  very  destructive.  The  choleric  temperament 
is, excitable,  yet  not  by  little  things,  as  the  sanguine  ; 
but  when  excited,  it  perseveres  in  the  plan  which  it 
has  chosen.  Strong  in  its  inclinations  it  is  faithful,  but 
no  less  subject  to  great  passions,  to  ambition,  to  despot- 
ism, to  wrath  and  other  vehement  impressions.  Its  ac- 
tivity thus  vibrates  between  life  and  death,  between  pro- 
ducing and  destroying.  It  is  the  temperament  of 
despots,  and  of  such  men,  as  seem  to  be  destined  for 
the  chastisement  of  nations,  for,  magnanimous  and  brave, 
courageous  and  proud,  it  is  jealous,  vindictive  and  ma- 
licious, inclined  to  violence  and  obstinacy.  Its  bent  is 
to  practical  pursuits  ;  it  is  quick  of  understanding, 
acute  in  judgment,  clear  and  precise  in  its  expressions, 
and  its  productions  in  the  arts  are  manifold  and  expres- 
sive. This  is  the  temperament  of  the  Spaniards  and 
Italians,  and  was  that  of  Napoleon.  "  Every  action  ex- 
cited him  only  to  a  new  one.  When  at  war,  he  thought 
of  the  advantage  to  be  gained  from  a  truce  ;  when  he  had 
eflfected  it,  he  thought  of  the  ways  and  means  to  break 
it.  In  France  he  thought  of  Russia,  in  Russia  of  In- 
dia. Even  at  St.  Helena  he  was  engaged  in  dictating 
a  history  of  his  own  adventures,  or  in  reviewing  those 
of  others,  as  those  of  Cesar  or  Alexander."  If  the  san- 
guine lives  wholly  for  the  'present,  in  which  alone  he 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  f5 

can  enjoy  himself,  the  choleric  is  forced  to  dwell  with 
his  plans  in  the  ftiture,  for  all  action  is  preceded  by  a 
resolution  and  separated  from  it  by  the  lapse  of  time^ 

THE  MELANCHOLIC  TEMPERAMENT. 

A  constant  longing  and  desire,  and  an  inclination  to 
retire  or  withdraw  into  itself,  are  the  characteristics  of 
this  temperament.  All  its  activity  receives  its  impulse 
from  reflection  orj  the  past,  on  the  vanity  of  all  things, 
and  especially  of  human  affairs.  The  ruins  o*f  former 
days  exhibit  on  the  one  hand  the  greatness  of  man,  and 
thus  rejoice  the  heart,  and  on  the  other  they  indicate 
the  decay  of  all  that  is  sublunary,  and  fill  the  heart 
with  sadness ;  thus  joy  and  sadness  commingle,  and 
give  a  tendency  to  seriousness,  to  meditation,  and  fre- 
quently to  speculation.  To  the  melancholy  all  that  is 
near  and  clear  to  others  is  still  at  a  distance,  and  as  the 
blue  color  of  the  sky,  which  presents  itself  to  our  eye 
when  it  gazes  into  the  immense  depth  above  us,  or  which 
envelops  distant  mountains,  awakes  a  longing  for  some- 
thing unknown,  so  every  thing,  however  well-ascertain- 
ed, serves  only  to  call  up  in  the  breast  a  desire  for  some- 
thing still  deeper  and  higher  and  purer.  It  delights  to 
live  in  the  regions  of  truth,  of  beauty,  of  the  sublime, 
and  the  romantic.  It  feels  indifierent  to  the  sensual 
world,  and  the  eye,  turned  inwardly,  indicates  this  by 
its  coldness  and  want  of  animation.  In  science  it  is 
deep  and  inclined  to  skeptical  researches.  In  art  it  aims 
at  expression  as  in  the  German  school  of  music. 

We  find  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  temperament 
in  Chateaubriand.  Brought  up  in  an  old  castle  in  Bre- 
tagne,  his  melancholy  was  nourished,  even  in  his  youth. 
During  the  revol  ution  he  dreams  in  the  woods  of  Ameri- 
ca ;  he  sings  of  the  introduction  of  the  christian  religion 
into  Gaul ;  he  makes  a  pilgrimage  to  the  holy  sepulchre ; 
examines  the  haven  of  old  Carthage  ;  reads  Milton's  Para- 
dise Lost  in  England ;  full  of  romance,  he  attempts  to 
defend  the  old  stage  by  writing  his  Moses,  a  drama  that 
was  never  exhibited  ;  he  upholds  the  legitimacy  of 
Henry  V.,  retires  from  public  life,  writes  the  history  of 


7^  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

France,  and  in  his  memoirs  complains  of  ennui, 
while  the  world  around  him  is  undergoing  new  de- 
velopments. Byron  is  another  instance.  Nothing 
could  satisfy  him  except  the  past,  the  ancient  literature 
of  Greece,  &c. 

THE  PHLEGMATIC  TEMPERAMENT. 

In  this,  self-possession  prevails,  which  does  not  suf- 
fer itself  to  be  carried  away  by  external  impressions, 
nor  does  it  permit  any  of  the  one-sided  characteristics 
of  the  previous  temperament  to  reign,  but  retains  its 
full  dominion  over  all  the  influences  exercised  upon  it, 
and  over  all  its  re-actions.  It  has  therefore  the  capacity 
of  entering  into  every  situation  and  feeling,  and  is  ac- 
cessible on  all  sides.  It  is  moderate  in  all  things,  in  joy 
and  grief,  in  mirth  and  sadness,  in  labor  and  rest. 
This  perfect  equilibrium  renders  it  possible  to  retain  at 
all  titnes  its  liberty  and  personal  dignity.  The  sanguine 
temperament  is  dependent  on  external  impressions  ;  the 
choleric  on  its  internal  passion ateness,  which  does  not 
allow  coo]  reflection  ;  the  melancholic  on  its  longing, 
that  like  the  fragrance  of  the  flower  of  the  plant,  ever 
fills  all  its  thoughts  and  feelings  ; — but  the  phlegmatic 
is  independent  of  all  of  them.  It  has  its  center  and 
union  in  itself  and  is  aware  of  this  fact ;  it  has  found 
itself,  and  while  in  the  other  temperaments  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  world  is  principally  active,  in  thisself- 
conscious7iess  prevails.  In  proportion  as  our  conscious- 
ness is  related  to  something  external,  we  are  dependent 
on  it ;  but  in  proportion  as  it  is  related  to  itself,  and 
independent  of  any  thing  apart  from  itself,  we  are  free. 
The  phlegmatic  temperament  has  frequently  been 
wronged  and  looked  on  as  inferior  to  the  others,  be- 
cause its  features  are  not  so  striking ;  and  yet  this  alone 
renders  it  easy  to  man  to  preserve  to  himself  his  liberty, 
and  to  move  without  prejudice  and  pre-determination, 
in  whatever  direction  of  science  or  art  he  chooses.  Its 
seeming  indiflerence  and  rest  is  not  without  activity 
and  deep  interest,  but  like  the  lake,  the  waters  of  which 
seem  motionless  on  the  surface  while  rivulets  and  fresh 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  77 

waters  are  constantly  flowing  in,  and  though  unseen, 
keep  up  a  gentle  but  healihy  and  lively  activity,  so  this  is 
always  devoted  to  some  action,  without  much  display. 
Its  talents  are  highly  respectable,  its  ideas  deep  and 
clear,  its  style  rather  dry,  but  profound  and  accurate. 
In  art  it  is  faithful,  as  in  the  Dutch  school  with  its  land- 
scapes and  family-pictures. 

Its  possessor  is  in  danger  of  becoming  indolent,  in- 
different, and  fond  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Aristotle  asserted  that  the  melancholy  temperament 
was  most  favorable  to  science  and  art.  He  quotes 
among  the  rest,  Socrates,  of  whom  Plato  says,  that  in 
the  midst  of  the  noise  of  an  encampment,  he  fell  into  a 
deep  meditation,  and  stood  immovably  in  one  place, 
from  one  morning  to  another,  until  the  rising  sun  roused 
him,  to  offer  his  prayer.  Empedocles,  Plato,  Homer, 
Phidias,  Dante,  Raphael,  Handel,  and  other  distinguish- 
ed scholars  had  the  same  temperament.  Yet  it  is  the 
will  that  reigns  in  man,  and  not  the  temperament;  the 
former,  and  not  the  latter  forms  the  character,  nor  does 
talent  and  genius  depend  on  it.  Moses  and  Paul 
were  choleric.  Oberlin  was  sanguine,  and  the  celebra- 
ted Rembrandt,  phlegmatic.  One  temperament  will  make 
it  more  easy  than  another,  to  lead  a  life  according  to  de- 
termined principles,  or  to  enter  on  some  scientific  or 
practical  pursuit.  The  choleric,  for  instance,  is  favor- 
able to  practical  business,  for  it  is  the  temperament  of 
action  ;  the  sanguine  to  Belles-Lettres,  for  it  is  that  of 
enjoyment ;  the  melancholy  to  deep  speculations,  for  it 
is  that  of  desire  ;  and  the  phlegmatic  to  thorough  and 
universal  learning,  for  it  is  that  of  self-possession  and 
patience.  The  temperaments  will  thus  connect  them- 
selves with  mental  capacities,  and  infuse  into  them  live- 
liness or  ease ;  zeal  or  indifference  ;  quickness  or  slow- 
ness ;  cheerfulness  or  dullness ;  resoluteness  or  tardiness. 

MENTAL  CAPACITIES. 

Of  these  a  twofold  view  is  to  be  taken,  with  regard  to 
the  intensity  of  their  strength  and  energy,  and  with  regard 
to  the  objects,  to  which  they  are  instinctively  directed. 


78  ANTHROPOLOGY 

1.  In  respect  to  energy,  and  degree  of  strength,  our 
mental  faculties  are  to  be  divided  into  three  classes,  that 
of  docility  or  mere  capacity ^  of  talents^  and  of  genius, 

DOCILITY.^ 

Every  man  is  born  with  the  possibility  to  learn,  and 
this  possibility  has  its  origin  and  ground  in  God,  the 
Creator.  Hence  Plato,  when  he  was  about  to  die,  thank- 
ed the  Gods,  that  they  had  created  him  a  man  and  not 
an  animal.     This  general  possibility  may  be  called  the 
capacity  of  mind  to  receive  ideas  or  knowledge,  and 
every  one,  who  is  consciousof  himself,  is  endowed  with 
it.     It  is  therefore  something  genera/  and  qualifies  every 
one  who  has  it,  to  become  a  moral  agent,  and  to  feel  reli- 
gious affections.    Religion  and  moral  character  being  the 
two  greatest  achievements  of  man  in  this  life,  no  one 
has  a  right  to  complain  that  his  talents  are  less  distin- 
guished  than   those  of  others.     Some  of  us  are  rich, 
others  poor,  but  all  may  live  and   realize  the   end  of 
life,  if  they  are  diligent  and  faithful.     To  learn  is  to  be 
active ;  but  learning,  as  the  act  by  which  we  acquire 
knowledge,  is  an  intellectual  activity,  that  has  a  certain  ^ 
end  in  view  and  is  subject  to  certain  rules,  excluding 
the  arbitrariness  of  him  who  learns.     Thus  his  mind 
is  disciplined.     To  learn,  means  therefore  in  the  first 
place  to  receive  what  is  communicated.     But  that  which 
is  communicated  by  instruction  is  not  a  single  thing, 
nothing  sensual,  but  a  general  idea,  a  general  notion 
or  a  general   rule.     Learning,  therefore,  demands  not 
only  the  power  of  perceiving  clearly  and  distinctly  sin- 
gle objects,  but  of  perceiving  that,  which  is  common  to 
many  of  them,  or  it,  demands  the  power  ofcomprehend- 
ing  the  many  in  one.     The  animal  may  be  broken  in  or 
taught  to  perform  certain  services,  but  it  cannot  compre- 
hend principles  or  general  laws.     To  perceive  the  ge- 
neral nature  of  a  single  object  means  nothing  less  than 
to  refer  it  to  its  class.     I  ask,  What  is  this  7    And  re- 
ceive this  answer,  J.  rose!     Thus  the  single  plant  is 
classified,  and  I  lienceforth   shall  know   every  other 
flower  of  the  same  species.     To  learn  in  the  second 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  79 

place  means  to  judge  theoretically.  We  mnst  distin- 
guish between  our.perceptions  and  the  objects  perceived. 
There  are  many  objects  ;  all  must  be  classified  ;  every 
object  is  related  to  itself,  that  is,  has  parts  which  are 
related  to  each  other,  the  tree,  for  instance,  consists  of 
branches,  leaves,  trunk  and  roots  and  these  again  must 
he  distinguished.  Finally  a  distinction  must  be  made 
between  substance  and  accidents,  the  essential,  and  un- 
essential, (fee.  To  notice  all  these,  we  must  pay  close 
attention.  To  learn  in  the  third  place  means  to  he  atten- 
tive. And  in  the  last  it  means  to  remember  that  which 
has  been  received. 

TALENT. 

When  the  mere  capacity  becomes  an  ability^  so  that  we 
are  not  only  receiving,  but  in  being  taught,  teach  our- 
selves and  feel  an  inclination  to  apply  rules  and  principles 
and  to  produce  effects  we  may  call  it  talent.  The  man 
endowed  with  talent,  has  acute  perceptions  and  compre- 
hends quickly,  precisely,  easily, — hence  facility  from 
facile — adds  nothing  and  overlooks  nothing.  He  dis- 
tinguishes accurately  not  only  between  the  different 
qualities,  but  also  between  the  essential  and  accidental, 
and  he  discovers  connections  and  separations,  differen- 
ces and  unions,  harmonies  and  contradictions,  causes 
and  effects,  grounds  and  consequences,  where  the  man 
that  has  mere  capacity  cannot  observe  them.  His  attention 
is  easily  attracted  and  interested  in  all  that  presents  itself 
in  the  sphere  of  his  science;  and  his  memory  is  not 
only  faithful,  but  prompt  and  vivid.  To  improve  a 
science,  demands  talent;  but  mere  talent  is  confined  to 
certain  spheres  as  to  the  extent  of  its  productiveness ; 
nor  is  it  new  and  original,  but  fixes  itself  always  on  ma- 
terials that  are  historically  handed  down  to  it.  It  trans- 
forms, imitates,  or  leads  out.  So  Virgil  imitated  Homer  ; 
Horace  imitated  Pindar  j  Cicero  the  Greek  philosophers. 


ws^^es 


80  ANTHROPOLOGY. 


GENIFS. 

When  any  one  possesses  all  the  qualities  of  talent 
in  a  still  higher  degree,  he  is  said  to  have  genius — from 
genus. — Here  acuteness  of  judgment  is  united  with 
depth,  which  dives  into  the  nature  and  being  of 
all  things,  and  is  not.  satisfied  with  their  nearest,  but 
always  demands  their  last  hidden  element  or  foun- 
dation. Acuteness  ^and  depth  are  seldom  united, 
but  where  we  meet  both  in  one  person,  we  see  the 
highest  grade  of  genius.  With  genius  the  understanding 
is  flexible  and  capable  of  entering  with  ease  into  the 
views,  feelings  and  character  of  any  one,  so  that  a  few 
words  spoken  by  a  person  will  enable  it  to  understand 
and  represent  the  whole  character  of  that  person  ;  or  a 
single  outline  will  cause  it  to  produce  the  whole  pic- 
ture. Attention  is  constantly  awake  and  active ;  and 
memory,  aided  by  imagination,  is  not  only  prompt  and 
vivid,  but  productive,  giving  a  new,  and  more  attractive 
form  to  every  thing  intrusted  to  it.  Thoughts  present 
themselves  without  labor  ;  and  the  progress  in  art  and . 
science  demands  but  little  exertion  to  astonish  any  one 
who  observes  it.  Even  in  times  of  rest  true  genius  is 
on  the  advance.  The  character  of  genius  is  therefore 
evidently  productive  and  inventive. '  It  is  new,  and  fre- 
quently comes  in  contact  with  established  rules.  Yet 
it  is  not  arbitrary  in  its  productions,  but  follows  a  ra- 
tional necessity,  the  ground  and  reason  of  which  it  can 
understand.  Nor  is  it  correct  to  think,  that  genius 
needs  no  study.  It  is  not  enough  to  produce  new  ideas, 
we  must  also  know  how  to  express  them  well.  But 
this  demands  exercise.  Leonardo  Da  Vinci  said,  "If 
your  son  has  genius,  put  him  to  a  master  after  he  has 
studied  anatomy  and  perspective."  It  is  for  this  rea- 
son that  poverty  is  more  favorable  to  getiius  than 
wealth,  for  it  renders  exertion  necessary.  Goethe  rose 
every  morning  at  an  early  hour,  and  studied  regularly 
the  whole  day.  Leibnitz  sat  for  weeks  in  his  chair 
without  taking  any  exercise.  Nothing  can  be  more 
perverse,  than  the  notion  that  genius  works  altogether 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  81 

like  instinct.  Shakspeare  is  generally  adduced  as  an 
example,  and  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  had 
not  a  complete  education,  his  works  show  a  great 
amount  of  knowledge  which  he  must  have  acquired  in 
some  way  or  other.  He  lived  in  an  age,  that  filled  with 
romantic  views,  was  highly  favorable  to  poetry,  and 
which  cultivated  the  genius  of  the  great  poet  much 
more  than  an  age  like  ours,  wholly  given  to  practical 
pursuits  could  do.  All  Shakspeare's  time,  the  poet  and 
the  public  exercised  a  much  greater  mutual  influence 
on  each  other  than  they  now  do. 

.  True  genius  is  rare,  and  hence  it  is  a  gift  that  is  de- 
sired by  many.  But  as  a  few  only  possess  it,  many 
may  be  seen  to  make  pretensions  to  it,  while  they  have 
scarcely  talent. 

2.  In  respect  to  the  objects  to  which  our  mental  ca- 
pacities or  talents  have  a  peculiar  tendency,  we  say  that 
a  man  has  the  aptitude  or  ability  or  qualification  for 
the  performance  of  something,  or  for  a  study  when  his 
talents  are  perfectly  adapted  to  a  certain  sphere  of  ac- 
tivity. Thus  far  we  have  only  spoken  of  the  energy  of 
mental  capacities  ;  here  we  shall  treat  of  the  sphere  of 
action,  to  which  they  are  directed  by  nature.  At  the 
same  time  the  degree  of  their  energy  will  exhibit  itself 
in  the  greater  or  less  ease,  with  which  persons  perform 
the  labors  for  which  their  talents  qualify  them.  Many 
may  therefore  have  an  inclination  to  the  same  art  or 
science  or  practical  pursuit,  while  their  success  will  be 
very  diiferent,  though  they  should  all  of  them  be  equal- 
ly diligent.  The  objective  spheres  for  the  subjective 
capacities  of  man  may  be  divided  into  three  general 
fields:  fScience  ;  practical  pwsuits  ;  and  the  fine  arts.~ 
Each  of  them  may  be  subdivided  again,  and  every  sub- 
division will  demand  a  peculiar  quahfication. 

The  qualifications  for  science  in  general  are  an  in- 
nate desire  for  knowledge,  sound  judgment,  and  a  good 
memory.  Now  it  may  be  that  a  man  has  memory  as  a 
talent,  but  judgment  merely  as  capacity,  and  then  he 
will  easily  receive  and  retain  knowledge  and  accumulate 
a  great  amount  of  it,  but  his  knowledge  will  be  only  held 
together  by  the  order  of  succession,  externally  as  beads 

11 


82  ANTHROPOLOGY.        >*♦ 

are  united  by  the  string  that^  passes  through  them. 
Here  judgment  requires  much  exercise.  Or  a  man 
possesses  judgment  as  a  talent  and  memory  as  a  mere 
capacity.  Such  a  man  has  a  limited  knowledge,  but 
what  he  knows,  he  knows  well  and  according  to  logical 
order  of  cause,  and  effect,  and  ground,  and  conse- 
quence. But  as  all  objects  of  knowledge  have  a  bear- 
ing upon  each  other,  memory  ought  to  be  exercised. 
Or  finally  a  man  possesses  both  memory  and  judgment 
as  talents,  and  then  he  will  not  only  learn  well  and 
much,  but  improve  science  and  enrich  the  store  of  gener- 
al knowledge.  The  study  of  history  requires  a  strong, 
prompt  and  faithful  memory,  a  lively  imagination,  that 
can  enter  into  the  spirit  of  past  ages,  and  the  characters 
and  situations  of  historical  heroes,  impartiality  of  judg- 
ment, and  an  ardent  interest  in  the  human  race.  And 
here,  again,  mere  chronology  rests  more  on  memory, 
than  on  judgment ;  the  representation  on  the  other 
hand,  of  the  customs,  manners,  arts,  sciences,  politics 
and  laws  of  different  nations,  their  characters,  the  de- 
sign of  historical  actions,  their  results  and  historical 
criticism  demand  much  teleological  judgment ;  and  the 
philosophy  of  history  is  impossible  without  great  talent 
and  genius.  So  the  study  of  metaphysics  is  founded  on  a 
desire  for  knowledge,  that  is  not  satisfied  with  knowing 
many  things,  but  seeks  for  their  ground  and  nature, 
and  desires  in  all  its  knowledge  such  a  systematical  con- 
nection, as  will  give  to  every  portion  its  proper  place. 
And  the  study  of  Natural  sciences  ;  geology ,.geography, 
botany,  zoology,  pre-suppose  great  powers  of  observing, 
skill  in  arranging  our  perceptions  logically,  readiness 
in '  naming  and  describing  them  well ;  it  requires  too, 
the  gift  of  invention,  of  making  experiments,  and  of 
construing,  developing  and  applying  them. 

The  'practical  talent  has  likewise  its  different  objects, 
as  agriculture,  mechanical  arts,  trade,  political,  medical, 
juridical  pursuits,  <fec.  The  qualifications  for  them 
may  range  from  mere  capacity  to  genius.  The  latter 
will  invent  new  ways  and  means,  new  instruments  and 
machines,  new  institutions  and  regulations.  Every 
business  demands  tact^  that  is  the  gift  to  perceive  quick- 


^         ANTHROPOLOGY.  83 

ly  and  correctly  the  point  on  which  all  depends  ;  dex- 
terity  in  choosing  at  once  the  right  means ;  resolute- 
ness to  act  promptly  and  without  delay  or  fear;  exjje- 
ditiousness  in  dispatching  work  cheerfully  and  ener- 
getically, and  finally  an  enterprising  spirit. 

The  qualifications  for  the^^e  arts  must  always  exist 
either  as  talents  or  as  genius.  We  may  enjoy  the  pro- 
ductions of  art  without  having  a  talent  for  them,  or 
without  being  blessed  with  genius,  but  the  artist  cannot 
produce  any  thing  worth  having  without  a  high  degree 
of  talent.  The  object  of  art  is  to  represent  truth  in  a 
sensible  form.  Three  things  are  indispensable  for  the 
artist,  a  strong  and  productive  imagination,  the  inspira- 
tion of  a  great  and  noble  idea,  and  skill  to  realize  this 
idea  either  in  marble  or  on  the  canvas.  And  here 
again,  the  different  arts  pre-suppose  different  qualifica- 
tions. Architecture  with  its  labyrinths,  obelisks,  pyra- 
mids, temples  and  palaces,  rests  on  a  sense  of  regularity, 
symmetry  and  harmonious  proportions.  Sculpture  is 
confined  to  the  white  marble,  which  colorless  receives  the 
idea  of  the  master,  only  by  having  it  fully  expressed  on 
its  surface.  A  sense  for  form,  and  a  particular  dexterity 
in  wielding  the  chisel,  constitute  the  particular  qualifica- 
tions for  sculpture.  Painting  adds  the  eye  to  its  pic- 
tures, and  thus  is  able  to  represent  man  in  all  his  re- 
lations, to  represent  his  feelings,  his  actions  and,  motives. 
A  sense  for  colors,  for  light  and  shade  indicate  talents 
for  it.  Music  expresses  only  sensations  and  feelings, 
and  its  material  is  sound.  A  fine  and  delicate  ear,  an 
inclination  to  rhythm,  harmony  and  melody  will  qualify 
for  it.  Poetry  from  the  epic  to  the  dramatic,  demands 
genius  in  the  highest  degree  and  an  unlimited  power 
over  language. 

Not  every  artist  is  capable  of  moving  in  every  sphere 
of  his  art  with  the  same  ease.  Homer  was  great  in  epic, 
Sophocles  in  tragic,  Pindar  in  lyric  poetry.  Petrarch 
gained  immortal  glory  by  his  sonnets,  and  not  by  those 
works,  from  which  he  expected  to  enjoy  his  greatest 
fame.  Shakspeare  on  the  other  hand,  and  Goethe  were 
universal. — Much  less  still  can  one  artist  judge  correct- 
ly of  all  the   arts  or  be  equally  successful  in  them. 


84  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

Goethe  never  presumed  to  jud^e  of  music  ;  Michael 
Angelo's  sonnets  are  forgotten  as  are  the  works  of  sculp- 
ture produced  by  the  hands  of  Socrates.  Roos  was  an 
excellent  hand  in  drawing  ruminating  animals,  but  he 
failed  when  he  attempted  any  thing  out  of  this  sphere. 
There  is  a  relation  between  the  talents  of'  an  artist  and 
their  proper  objects,  which  makes  them  completely 
transparent  to  the  artist,  and  grants  him  an  insight  into 
their  nature,  that  enables  him  to  transfer  himself  wholly 
into  their  situation.  Where  this  natural  relation  is 
wanting,  the  artist  ought  to  acknowledge  the  limits  of 
his  productive  powers. 

We  have  thus  seen,  that  our  natural  capacities  differ 
not  only  with  rejrard  to  their  energy,  but  also  to  the  ex- 
ternal sphere  of  activity  for  which  they  qualify  man,  and 
the  question  remains.  What  is  it  that  causes  this  differ- 
ence ?  As  the  animal  has  instinct,  so  man  has  an  in- 
nate tendency  to  acquire  knowledge.  The  greater  or 
less  strength  and  excitability  of  this  natural  tendency^ 
will  call  forth  the  activity  of  reason,  which  is  the  prin- 
ciple of  all  talents  and  genius,  in  a  higher  or  lower  de- 
gree, either  as  a  capacity  or  as  a  talent.  When  that 
tendency  is  strong  enough  to  remove  all  difficulties 
with  regard  to  its  object,  we  possess  the  activity  of  mind  - 
as  a  mere  capacity.  When  on  the  other  hand  it  requires 
but  little  excitement  from  without  to  act  in  full  ener- 
gy, we  have  talent.  When  finally  that  natural  tendency 
is  not  only  strong  enough  to  remove  all  difiiculties,  but 
excites  to  productiveness  and  animates,  for  example, 
the  fingers  of  the  painter,  to  create  forms  and  propor- 
tions, or  the  imagination  of  the  musician,  to  compose 
melodies  and  harmonies,  we  have  genius. 

In  the  next  place  it  is  the  same  innate  tendency,  to 
acquire  knowledge,  which  directs  our  talents  to  certain 
objects.  This  tendency  in  its  lowest  stage  includes  in- 
stinct, which  points  out  to  it  its  proper  sphere.  The 
sphere  of  instinct  is  sensation,  that  of  the  tendency  to  ac- 
quire knowledge,  is  apperception,  consciousness.  But 
all  talents  pre-suppose  strong  and  acute  senses,  and  con- 
sciousness is  impossible  without  sensation.  As  instinct 
directs  the  animal  by  one  or  the  other  sense  to  its  prop- 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  85 

er  food,  so  it  silently  influences  the  direction,  which  the 
desire  for  knowledge  in  man  takes  to  certain  objects. 
The  painter  needs  a  correct  eye,  the  musician  a  delicate 
ear;  both  are  instinctively  directed  to  their  arts  by  their 
senses.  Mozart,  when  only  six  years  old,  on  hearing  a 
violin,  stated  that  its  sound  was  one-eighth  lower  than 
that  of  one  which  he  had  heard  the  day  before.  When 
both  were  compared,  his  remark  was  found  to  be  cor- 
rect. 

Some  talents  show  themselves  earlier  in  life  than 
others.  That  for  music  needs  no  nourishment  from 
without,  but  draws  all  its  compositions  from  its  own  re- 
sources, and  hence  it  early  manifests  itself.  Mozart 
was  but  five  years  old  when  he  entertained  large  com- 
panies with  his  performances.  Beethoven  did  so  in  his 
eighth  year,  and  Hummel  in  his  ninth.  As  talents  de- 
pend on  the  strength  and  activity  of  our  desire  for 
knowledge,  so  this  must  be  awakened  by  our  sensa- 
tions, by  the  sight  of  objects,  and  acquaintance  with 
them,  to  which  they  are  adapted.  Correggio,  on  seeing 
a  picture  of  Raphael,  exclaimed,  "  Anch  io  sotio  pit- 
toreP  I  too  am  a  painter.  Thucydides  hears  a  lec- 
ture of  Herodotus,  his  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  he  be- 
comes conscious  of  his  latent  talent.  La  Fontaine  hears, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  twenty-second  year,  a  few  verses 
of  Malherbe's  poems,  and  awakes  from  a  long  dream, 
perceiving  at  once  his  innate  qualification  for  poetry. 
The  early  or  late  development  may,  therefore,  frequent- 
ly depend  on  circumstances.  But  a  difierence  in  this 
respect  is  also  produced  by  the  object  on  which  genius 
is  to  exercise  itself.  Ovid,  when  yet  a  boy,  made  verses 
whenever  he  wrote.  Melancthon  received  the  degree 
of  A.  M.  in  his  fourteenth  year,  and  in  his  eighteenth 
he  was  professor  of  the  Greek  language  in  a  celebrated 
university. 

IDIOSYNCRASY. 

By  idiosyncrasy  we  understand  that  peculiarity  of  a 
constitution,  by  virtue  of  which  the  individual  feels 
either  sympathy  with   a  certain  ot^ect,  or  antipathy 


86  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

against  it, or  indifference  towards  it.     It doesnot belong 
to  the  whole  race,  its  character  is  therefore  not  ge- 
neric ;  as,  for  example,  the  aversion  of  one  ckss  of  ani- 
mals to  another,  or  that  of  man  to  serpents,  but  it  belongs 
exclusively  to  certain  individuals,  and  because  of  its 
singularity,  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  it.     Sometimes 
a  sudden  fright  of  the  mother  may  leave  a  never-dying 
impression  on  the  soul  of  the  child,  and  idiosyncrasy 
may  frequently  take  its  rise  in  that  early  state  of  life  £is 
was  the  case  with  James  I.,  who  could  not  endure  the 
sight  of  a  naked  sword,  or  with  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Epernon  who  swooned  at  the  sight  of  a  young  hare. 
In  all  instances  it  is  certain,  that  the  utterance  of  sym- 
pathy or  antipathy  rest  not  on  judgment,  but  on  mere 
feeling.     In  common  life  the  attraction  of  different  per- 
sons to  each  other  rests  either  on  an  internal  equality 
or  resemblance  which  is  recognized  in  spite  of  all  exter- 
nal difference,  or  on  a  common  interest  which  is  deter- 
mined by  the  capacities  of  those  that  feel  it.     In  both^ 
cases  we  are  guided  by  judgment.    (Sympathy^  or  antipa- 
thy, on  the  other  hand,  while  they  likewise  found  them- 
selves upon  such  an  internal  resemblance  or  inequality 
of  individuals,  are  the  immediate  utterance  of  feeling 
and  not  of  a  clear  judgment.     Persons  meet  for  the  first 
time  and  feel   themselves  attracted  without  knowing 
each  other,  or  they  feel  themselves  repelled  like  balls 
tossed  against  each  other.    It  is  as  if  this  internal  equali- 
ty or  inequality  were  more  perceived  by  a  kind  of  pre- 
sentiment than  anything  else ;  it  resembles  the  attrac- 
tive power  of  magnet  and  of  iron,  of  the  negative  and 
positive  pole.     In  the  world  of  morals,  the  like  loves  to  as- 
sociate with  like,  the  good  with  the  good,  and  the  bad 
with  the  bad;  but  sympathy,  founded  on  mere  feelings 
demands  always  some  polar  difference  irj  two  persons 
that  otherwise  resemble  each  other  in  habits  and  taste. 
Two  persons,  perfectly  alike,  frequently  feel  an  aver- 
sion to  each  other,  as  two  keys,  near  each  other  on  the 
piano,  harmonize  less  than  two  separated  by  a  third. 
But  when  there  is  a  polar  relation  between  the  two,  so 
that  the  one  possesses  positively  what  the  other  does 
negatively,  then  they  will  attract  each  other.     This  is 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  87 

the  case  between  persons  of  diiferent  sexes.  Such  a  dif- 
ference is  not  opposition,  but  proceeds  from  an  original 
Union.  Sympathy  then  rests  on  a  natural  correspond- 
ence between  the  nervous  systems  of  two  persons  or 
their  disposition.  This  correspondence  is  only  felt  and 
not  clearly  known.  Hence  it  is  that  frequently  a  single 
movement  of  the  lips,  or  a  peculiar  glance  of  the  eye 
may  call  forth  sympathy  or  antipathy. 

Antipathy  must  be  explained  on  the  same  principles, 
and  we  will  therefore  only  give  a  few  remarkable  in- 
.  stances  from  Schubert  in  his  history  of  the  soul.  The 
celebrated  Erasmus  became  feverish  when  he  smelt 
fish.  The  distinguished  Scaliger,  when  near  a  water- 
cress, trembled  in  his  whole  body.  Simon  Ponli  felt 
strong  palpitation  of  the  heart  when  fresh  apples  were 
brought  into  his  room.  A  little  opium  laid  in  the  ear 
of  a  patient  caused  his  death,  and  the  sight  of  white 
horses  acted  as  a  powerful  cathartic  with  another.  A  man, 
that  had  recovered  from  a  long  disease,  swooned,  when 
he  smelt  bread,  and  another  felt  himself  violently 
purged  when  he  smfeU  broth.  Baco  swooned  during  an 
eclipse  of  the  moon  ;  and  P.  BoVle,  when  he  heard  the 
noise,  which  is  caused  by  water,  pouring  forth  from  a 
spigot.  Honey  with  some  persons  has  the  effect  of 
poison  ;  and  the  aversion  felt  by  many  to  caterpillars, 
spiders,  mice,  and  toads,  is  well  known.  An  interesting 
fact  is  related  of  two  monks,  who  so  sympathized  with 
each  other,  that  when  the  one  was  taken  sick,  the  other 
would  feel  unwell ;  and  when  the  former  recovered,  the 
latter  would  be  delivered  from  pain.  Petrarch  states, 
that  when  once  Laura  suffered  much  from  pain  in  her 
eyes,  and  he  felt  very  much  for  her,  his  eyes  began  to 
experience  the  same  pain. 

It  is  usual  to  speak  also  under  the  general  head  of 
idiosyncrasy  of  apathy.  Physically  this  is  the  state 
of  the  system  when  no  medicine  can  reach  it.  A  man 
much  engaged  in  alchemy  could  take  four  ounces  of 
sweetened  and  sublimated  mercury  without  being  purg- 
ed. Psychologically  it  is  the  absence  of  every  kind  of 
interest  in  many  things  which  attracts  others  easily. 


88 


CHAPTER  11. 


THE  NATURAL  MODIFICATIONS  OF  MIND,  PRODUCED 
BY  AGE,  WAKING,  SLEEPING,  AND  DREAMING. 

All  the  modifications  of  mind  which  we  shall  have 
to  consider  in  this  chapter,  are  such,  as  are  not  perma- 
nently the  same,  but  subject  to  changes,  and  periodical. 
The  first  are  those  produced  by  age. 

'  AGE.     ■ 

They  are  not  permanent.  The  child  does  not  re- 
main a  child,  but  grows  and  becomes  a  youth  ;  and  the 
youth  develops  itself,, matures  and  becomes  man  or  wo- 
man. None  of  these  stages  is  therefore  fixed,  but  the 
one  passes  over  into  the  other.  Yet  with  these  transi- 
tions changes  both  of  the  physical  and  psychological 
nature  take  place,  and  as  may  be  anticipated,  not  acci- 
dentally, not  without  some  good  design.  As  in  the  plant 
those  leaves  which  appear  first  and  are  nearest  to  the 
soil,  are  also  least  formed,  and  their  substance  more  rude, 
so  man  in  his  childhood  shows  physically  little  expres- 
sion in  his  face,  and  psychologically  is  confined  to  mere 
sensations  and  perceptions.  But  as  the  leaves  grow 
higher  from  the  soil  as  they  are  more  exposed  to  the  air, 
and  the  influence  of  the  light,  the  juice  becomes  more 
refined,,  the  color  more  fresh  and  tender  and  all  the 
forms  grow  more  perfect,  until  finally  on  the  top 
of  the  plant  many  delicate  leaves  cluster  around  one 
center  and  form  the  bud,  from  which  the  flower  in  all 
its  beauty,  bursts  on  us.    This  is  the  youth  of  the  plant. 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  89 

When  the  flower  fades,  the  seed  will  begin  to  ripen,  and 
when  the  seed  is  matured,  the  fruit  will  decay.  Here 
we  have  the  picture  of  man.  His  youth  is  the  flower- 
ing season  of  the  plant.  Sensation  and  perception 
have  been  well  exercised  and  now  the  powers  of 
imagination,  of  fancy,  of  memory,  and  the  capacity 
to  receive  and  digest  new  ideas,  are  to  be  cultivated,  for 
they  are  principally  active,  and  indicated  in  the  blodm 
of  the  face,  in  tlie  fire  of  the  eye,  and  by  all  the  emo- 
tions of  the  heart.  When  these  powers  of  the  mind, 
have  been  sufficiently  attended  to,  they  fade  and  judg- 
ment, reflection,  thought,  and  practical  activity  grow 
forth  from  them,  until  the  ripened  soul  causes  the  body 
to  decay,  as  the  seed  the  plant.  Should  we  now  ven- 
ture to  pronounce  the  design  of  the  ages,  we  should 
say ;— the  soul  enters  the  world  in  a  state  of  involution, 
and  its  destiny  is  to  unfold  and  manifest  what  it  contains. 
Whenever  one  great  manifestation  has  been  made,  it 
turns  to  another,  leaving  the  former  behind,  and  this 
change  is.  indicated  by  the  transition  from  a  lower  to  a 
higher  age,  until  when  all  its  developments  are  eflect- 
ed,  it  turns  from  time  to  eternity,  and  forsaking  its  body, 
which  is  no  longer  of  use  to  it,  leaves  it  to  decay.  For 
the  body,  without  the  soul,  can  as  little  support  itself, 
as  the  rainbow,  created  by  the  sun,  can  continue,  after 
the  sun  turns  away  from  it  to  a  different  part  of  the 
globe. 

Different  periods-  of  this  gradaul  development  have 
been  exhibited  by  physiologists.  Some  have  admitted  ten 
each  consisting  of  seven  years,  thirty  one  weeks  and 
six  days;  Shakspeare  speaks  of  seven,  but  most  writers, 
following  the  division  of  the  seasons,  admit  only 
four.  To  divide  these  periods  according  to  years,  is  a 
difiicult  undertaking.  Not  only,  because  as  the  sea- 
sons, so  our  ages  differ  in  the  various  climates,  but  they 
vary  with  different  persons  in  the  same  region.  That 
which  exists  and  grows,  cannot  be  fixed  in  certain  stages, 
but  like  a  stream,  that  continually  flows  and  cannot  be 
stopped  by  putting  a  pole  as  a  landmark  into  its  waters, 
one  stage  will  flow  imperceptibly  into  the  other.  Haller 
collected  more  than  one  thousand  instances  of  persons, 

12 


90  **        «  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

who  lived  more  than  one  hundred  to  one  hundred  and  ten 
years,  and  some  of  such,  as  died  in  the  one  hundred  and 
fiftieth  and  one  hundred  and  seventieth  year  ;  ten  periods, 
each  of  six  years,  thirty-one  weeks  and  six  days  would 
of  course  not  be  sufficient  in  such  eases. 
'  We  shall  in  a  short  characteristic  of  the  ages  follow 
the  natural  division  of  the  seasons  and  the  day,  the  in- 
fluence of  which  on  all  that  live  is  analagous  to  that 
of  the  four  ages  on  our  life.  These  division  are  strong- 
ly marked  by  our  mental  and  physical  power,  and  also 
by  a  pre-disposition  to  certain  diseases.  In  childhood 
our  nature  inclines  to  inflammation  of  the  brain;  in 
youth  to  disorders  of  the  pectoral  system  ;  in  manhood 
to  bilious  diseases  and  fevers,  and  in  old  age  to  palsies. 

CHILDHOOD. 

This  exhibits  three  distinct  stages,  that  of  the  infant, 
that  when  the  child  begins  to  ivalk  and  to  speakj  and 
that  when  it  begins  to  understand  the  world  around  it. 

During  the  Ji7\st  of  these  three  periods  the  child  exists 
more  in  the  form  of  vegetative  life.  It  sleeps  about  eight- 
een hours  a  day,  and  like  pi  ants,  grows  rapidly,  and  is  al- 
together a  sleeping  monad,  for  the  morning  of  intellect 
is  not  yet  dawning  on  it.  It  is,  however,  born  a 
sensitive  being,  and  feels  every  where  on  its  body,  ex- 
cept on  the  sole  of  the  foot.  This  experience  shows  for 
when  the  air  streams  on  its  tender  body,  it  moves  its 
limbs  and  cries  ;  vvhen  it  is  touched,  its  muscular  power 
attempts  to  re-act.  As  the  lungs  breathe  as  soon  as  the 
air  falls  upon  them,  so  its  lips  point  themselves  and  seek 
for  nourishment,  when  it  feels  hunger.  Drinking  and 
eating  are  yet  united  in  one  act.  The  pleasure,  accom- 
panying the  satisfaction  of  want,  runs  like  an  electric 
spark  through  all  its  limbs,  and  soon  not  only  the  lips,  but 
also  its  little  hands  seek  the  favored  food.  The  touch 
of  the  hands  will  attract  the  eye,  which  begins  to  be 
active  four  or  five  days  after  birth,  and  thus  one  sense 
will  awaken  and  aid  the  other.  Hearing  develops  it- 
self later,  as  it  is  said  to  continue  longest  in  the  dying. 
It  distinguishes  first  the  voice  of  the  mother,  for  this 


ANTHROPOLOGY.         -^    J^"  91 

proceeds  from  the  same  breast  from  which  it  receives, 
its  nourishment. 

The  second  period  announces  itself  by  the  attempts 
of  the  child  to  walk  and  to  speak.  With  them  it  raises 
itself  above  the  sphere  of  mere  feeling,  and  enters  on 
that  of  consciousness.  A  desire  to  play  indicates  a  will 
in  its  lowest  stage.  This  desire  makes  the  child  seize 
with  its  little  hands,  what  is  offered  to  them ;  it  grows 
fond  of  what  it  has  once  seized  and  pays  attention  to 
toys  and  those,  which  it  sees  and  handles  oftenest,  it 
will  soon  be  able  to  distinguish  from  others.  This  ap- 
pears from  the  fact,  that  it  will  not  suffer  one  toy  to  be 
taken  out  of  its  hands  and  another  to  be  put  in  its  place, 
but  it  insists  on  the  one,  that  tvas  taken  from  it. 
Thus  it  learns  to  distinguish  and  to  choose.  The  in- 
terest felt  by  the  child  in  certain  objects  will  be  expres- 
sed by  its  hands,  and  some  inarticulate  sounds,  until 
finally,  after  having  heard  them  named  repeatedly,  it 
imitates  words.  The  child  indeed  had  sounds  before,  it 
wept,  and  laughed,  and  cried ;  but  to  form  sounds  into 
tones  and  pronounce  them  as  words  demands  intellect. 
Its  original  sounds  were  principally  vowels ;  to  pronounce 
consonants  teeth  are  required.  Mere  sounds  the  ani- 
mal has  likewise,  but  its  sounds  have  no  variety.  The 
goose  hisses,  the  hen  clucks,  the  sheep  bleats.  The 
voice  of  man  is  capable  of  forming  all  these  sounds,  as 
was  Madame  Catalani  to  compass  three  octaves  and  a 
half.  The  child  at  first  indicates  by  a  few  words 
a  great  many  objects ;  every  stranger  is  an  uncle  or  an 
aunt.  After  some  time  it  forms  words  of  its  own,  that 
frequently  are  full  of  significance. — With  the  language 
the  child  becomes  conscious  of  the  world,  and  of  itself, 
especially  when  it  ceases  to  speak  of  itself  in  the  third 
person,  and  begins  to  name  itself  by  the  term  I.  This 
conception  of  itself  is  like  a  light  in  the  midst  of 
darkness.  Now  the  child  plays  with  itself,  as  if  it  were 
sufficient  to  itself.  It  sleeps  less,  and  is  unwilling  to 
be  put  to  be  bed,  <fcc. 

The  third  period  is  that  in  which  the  child  desires  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  world.  The  impressions  it 
receives  are  new  and  strong,  as  they  are  yet  few  it  re- 


9'a  *^  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

m  * 
taines  them  easily.  The  fondness  for  play  increases;  the 
boy  runs  about,  wrestles,  climbs  trees  and  makes  mis- 
chief; the  girl  delights  in  adorning  a  doll,  and  at- 
tending to  a  kitchen  apparatus  in  miniature.  Pleasure 
and  displeasure  seize  the  young  heart  with  much  vehe- 
mence and  the  will  excited  by  them,  attaches  the 
action  without  deliberation  to  desires.  These  change 
quickly  and  influence  to  many  actions,  that  must 
be  imprudent.  Not  distinguishing  between  genuine  and 
false  pleasures,  the  child  will  give  the  more  valuable 
for  a  trifle  which  attracts  its  attention.  The  rash  and 
inconsiderate  life  of  the  child  meets  therefore  a  contra- 
diction in  the  well  regulated  and  principled  life  of  grown 
persons,  and  this  contradiction  manifests  itseif  as  disci- 
pline.  The  virtues  of  gratitude,  obedience,  and  peti- . 
Honing,  can  be  cultivated  in  the  earliest  childhood  by 
withholding  and  granting  at  proper  seasons.  Cleanli-  ^ 
ness  in  dress  and  moderation  in  food,  are  the  basis  of  all 
education.  Exercise  of  the  higher  senses,  the  ear  and 
eye,  and  limitation  of  the  pleasures  of  the  lower  are  the 
best  preventives  of  voluptuousness  and  senswality. 

Children  live  wholly  in  the  present ;  the  future  does 
not  yet  trouble  them.  One  day  passes  by  like  the  other. 
As  yet  boys  and  girls  play  with  each  other  ;  but  soon 
they  flee  in  order  to  seek  each  other  again.  The  girl 
turns  in  upon  herself  and  grows  modest  and  silent,  the 
boy  shunning  her  seeks  the  company  of  boys,  and  be- 
comes awkward  and  rude. 

YOUTH. 

Sera  Venus — inexhausta  juventus.  Tacitus. 
Now  all  formations  of  the  body  are  fully  developed  ; 
the  proportions  of  all  parts  to  each  other,  are  in  their 
highest  perfection  ;  the  nerves  are  vigorous  and  the 
muscles  swell  softly  over  into  each  other.  The  beard  and 
the  change  of  voice  in  the  young  man  ;  the  delicacy 
and  bloom  in  the  face  of  the  girl  indicate  this  period  no 
less,  than  a  higher  respiration  and  a  greater  warmth  of 
the  whole  body.  Psychologically  this  period  may  be 
known  from  a  prevalence  of  the  imagination,  memory, 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  93 

and  judgment,  and  an  irresistible  inclination  to  dive  into 
the  future,  lay  plans  and  build  castles  in  the  air.  The 
breast  is  filled  with  hopes  and  ideas,  with  expectations 
and  wishes,  with  undertakings  and  plans  to  reform 
the  world.  Love  and  friendship  are  the  two  principal 
inclinations  of  youth  ;  perseverance  and  courage,  firm- 
ness and  nobleness,  magnanimity  and  self-denial,  are  in 
their  brain.  Love  ennobles  and  often  forms  the  transi- 
tion from  a  silent  and  idle  life,  to  a  most  generous  and 
noble  activity.  Dante's  love  to  Beatrice  ripened  into 
his  Divina  Commedia  ;  Petrarch's  love  entered  into  his 
sonnets  ;  Goethe's  into  his  Faust.  In  a  moral  respect 
Honor  becomes  the  guiding  principle. 

MANHOOD. 

The  growth  of  theljody  has  ceased,  though  its  inten- 
sive strength  may  still  grow  higher.  The  face  ex- 
hibits impressions  of  certam  fixed  inclinations,  and  pas- 
sions, and  expressions  of  character  ;  the  glance  of  the 
eye  is  firm,  the  support  of  the  body  manly  and  noble, 
and  the  walk  dignified  and  serious.  The  ideals  of 
youth  depart,  and  the  reality  of  life  claims  the  undivid- 
ed attention  of  man.  In  the  place  of  the  pictures  of 
fancy,  life  ofiers  its  objects,  and  mature  judgment  and 
knowledge,  firmness  of  will,  ripeness  of  experience,  and 
a  resolute  but  deliberate  activity  become  indispensable. 
Purposes  must  be  realized ;  something  must  be  effected 
to  secure  to  men  a  position  in  society.  Wife  and  chil- 
dren must  be  taken  care  of,  the  government  and  the 
welfare  of  the  whole  race  demand  the  interest  of  man. 
As  thinking  becomes  more  logical,  the  single  thoughts 
clearer,  so  the  emotions  of  the  heart  are  viewed  more 
correctly,  and  no  longer  suftered  to  exercise  an  influence 
on  the  will  proportional  to  their  vehemence.  And  so 
all  actions  are  accompanied  by  circumspection  and  pru- 
dence, and  must  proceed  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and  from 
a  consideration  of  their  consequences  in  the  future. 
Man  must  know  how  to  resign  and  endure,  how  to  per* 
severe  and  to  act. 


94  ANTHROPOLOGY. 


OLD  AGE. 


Jncundissima  est  aetas  devexa  jam,  non  tamen  pre- 
ceps. — Seneca. 

The  frailty  of  old  age  has  been  the  theme  of  many 
a  poem,  and  of  much  complaint.  Homer  early  com- 
pared the  voice  of  old  men  to  the  chirping  of  the  balm- 
cricket.  And  yet  old  age  is  not  destitute  of  its  high 
pleasures.  Desires  and  passions,  those  tyrants  of  youth 
no  longer  rage  in  it ;  past  experience,  and  many  changes 
and  occurrences,  rising  and  sinking  wealth  and  power, 
the  destructive  and  reviving  facts  of  history,  have  taught 
the  aged  neither  to  tremble  at  dangers  nor  to  overprize 
things  earthly.  He  can  no  longer  be  deluded  ;  his  coun- 
sel is  sought  for  and  valued.  Old  age  may  therefore  be 
called  that  of  peace  and  serenity  ;  for  quick  impressions 
no  longer  disturb  it,  unseasonable  desires  no  longer  tor- 
ture it,  and  its  principal  attention  is  directed  to  its  eter- 
nal home.  The  more  familiar  it  grows  with  the  home 
above  the  stars,  the  morie  it  becomes  estranged  to  the 
concerns  of  life,  and  this  gradual  estrangement  may  be 
called  a  gradual  dying,  and  death  nothing  else  than  a 
transition  of  the  soul  from  time  to  eternity  leaving  the 
body  behind.  As  the  soul  dives  into  the  other  world 
the  colors  of  this  earth  grow  pale  and  less  interest- 
ing. 

Yet  some  old  men  have  preserved  in  themselves  a 
deep  interest  in  the  world,  and  continued  to  feel  youth- 
ful, and  labor  with  energy.  Goethe  continued  his 
usual  activity  until  a  few  days  before  his  death  ;  Ru- 
ben's Last  Judgment,  and  Raphael's  Transfiguration, 
were  the  best  and  last  works  of  those  great  men. 

Many  feel  neglected  in  old  age,  because  they  have 
ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  those  around  them ; 
many  lose  their  memory  because  they  do  not  exercise 
it.  Robert  Constantine  had  an  excellent  philological 
memory  in  his  one  hundredth  and  third  year.  Many  be- 
come childish,  because  they  live  altogether  in  the  days 
of  their  childhood,  and  pay  no  attention  to  the  affairs  of 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  95 

the  day.  But  when  all  is  as  it  ought  to  be,  then  the 
old  man  will  rejoice  in  his  age,  and  as  the  horizon  of 
his  earthly  sun  grows  more  narrow,  that  of  his  heaven- 
ly sun  will  become  more  expanded  and  more  brilliant. 
For  the  soul  that  comes  from  God,  having  fulfilled  its 
destiny  on  earth,  desires  to  return. 

SLEEPING  AND  WAKING. 

Sleeping  and  waking  are  the  "ebb  and  flood  of  mind 
and  of  matter  on  the  ocean  of  aur  life."  They  are  re- 
lated to  each  other  as  night  and  day,  darkness  and  light, 
consciousness  and  unconsciousness.  In  proportion  as 
any  being  may  be  said  to  be  awake,  it  will  be  able  to 
enjoy  sleep.  We  propose  to  answer  tbe  folio  wtng 
questions : 

1.  What  is  sleeping,  and  what  is  waking  1 

2.  Where  is  sleep  met  with  ? 

3.  What  is  its  design  ? 

4.  What  are  its  conditions  ? 

5.  What  is  a  regular  sleep  ? 

6.  What  is  falling  asleep  ?  and  what  is  waking  ? 

1.  WHAT  IS  SLEEPING,  AND  WHAT  IS  WAKING  1 

/Sleep.  The  words  used  in  different  languages  to 
signify  the  state  of  life  under  consideration,  express 
generally  a  relaxation.  Sommis  in  the  Latin  no  doubt 
is  derived  from  siipinusj  lying  on  the  back  and 
which  is  derived  from  that  sop io  to  .deprive  of  feel- 
ing or  sense,  and  from  which  the  modern  term  sofa 
comes ;  the  Greek  term  vttvos  is  equal  to  vmvos  and  this 
is  allied  to  the  Latin  supuns,  supnius,  somnus,  and 
means  likewise  l^mg  back ;  the  English  sleep  comes 
from  the  Saxon  slepan  and  the  German,  schlafen^ 
whose  root  is  schlaff^  and  whose  meaning  is  lax  or 
relaxed^  and  which  is  used  of  the  bow-string  whea- 
loosened.  Sleep  in  general  is,  therefore  a  state  pf 
relaxation.  This  definition  is  not,  however,  suffi- 
cient, and  we  must  add  that  is  the  negation  of 
consciousness  of  the  world  and  of  ourselves.  Yet  con- 
sciousness is  not  annihilated,  but  continued  as  dreams 


96 


ANTHROPOLOGY. 


indicate  and  as  the  possibility  of  awaking  at  a  certain 
hour,  sufficiently  proves.  The  nervous  system,  which 
influences  the  activity  of  the  soul  when  directed  out- 
ward, is  asleep  and  hence  the  communications  of 
the  soul  with  the  world  is  interrupted  for  a  time.  We 
must  further  add,  that  sleep  is  the  rest  of  the  activity  of 
the  organs  of  sensibility  ;  yet  the  functions  of  sensibili- 
ty, of  sensation  and  perception,  are  not  suppressed,  but 
only  limited  in  their  clearness  and  accuracy;  they  are 
veiled  and  put  to  rest  with  regard  to  e-ternal  objects. 
But  while  at  rest  in  this  respect,  they  re-produce  their 
life  and  re-invigorate  themselves.  Again  we  must  add, 
that  sleep  is  the  prevalence  of  the  functions  of  bodily 
re-prod'dction,  of  digestion,  respiration,  circulation  of 
the  blood  over  those  of  sensibility.  Though  breathing 
and  the  pulsation  of  the  blood  becomes  slower,  they  are 
the  former  more  deep,  and  the  latter  fuller.  Hence 
it  is,  that  many  snore  when  asleep,  for  they  draw  in  the 
air  more  deeply.  Secretion  is  diminished,  but  is  richer 
and  more  energetic,  and  digestion  is  more  perfect.  Per- 
sons grow  principally  during  sleep,  and  wounds  heal 
more  at  night,  than  during  the  day.  The  plant  grows 
quicker  than  anything  else  in  nature,  and  it  is  there- 
fore considered  as  the  true  representative  of  re-produc- 
tion. A  twig  broken  off  and  planted,  produces  a  new 
tree.  The  life  of  man  during  sleep  is  principally  vege- 
tative, as  Aristotle  remarked,  and  Liebnitz  called  man 
when  asleep,  a  vegetable  monad.  In  sleep  man  is  turn- 
ed in  upon  himself,  and  wholly  indifferent  to  the  world 
around  him  ;  hence  Heraclitus  said, — in  .  sleep  every 
man  has  a  world  of  his  own,  but  when  awake  all  men 
have  one  in  common  with  each  other.  Sleep  has  been 
considered  by  ancient  poets,  as  the  sister  of  death ; 
Homer  calls  death  a  brazen  sleep  vttvos  xaXfeos ;  but 
if  sleep  is  rest  in  activity  and  death  as  it  is  general- 
ly viewed,  a  cessation  from  all  activity,  then  sleep  and 
death  are  not  sisters,  nor  are  theyi  n  any  way  related  to 
each  other. 

Waki7ig,  This  is  the  opposite  of  sleeping  or  that 
state  of  life,  in  which  the  system  of  sensibility  reigns 
over  that  of  re-production,  or  in  which  the  soul  and 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  97 

unconsciousness  prevail  over  the  body.  All  the  func- 
tions of  sensibility  are  fully  active,  as  seeinof,  hearin^g^, 
smellinir,  tastincr,  and  feeling  ;  we  think,  and  judge,  and 
will ;  we  distinguish  between  ourselves  and  the  world, 
between  our  perceptions  and  the  things  perceived  ;  we 
remember,  direct  attention  whithersoever  we  please,  and 
determine  the  motions  of  all  our  muscles. 

Sleeping  and  waking  seem  to  be  in  opposition,  and 
yet  they  are  not,  for  the  one  is  founded  on  the  other. 
While  we  sleep,  something  in  us  is  awake,  and  while 
we  are  awake,  some  powers  in  u^  are  at  rest. 

2.  WHERE  IS  SLEEP  MET  WITH'? 

As  sleeping  and  watching  are  closely  related  to  each 
other,  we  may  at  once  say,  that  a  being  can  enjoy  sleep 
only  in  proportion  to  the  degree  in  which  it  may  be 
said  to  be  awake.  Beings,  that  are  wholly  reproduc- 
tive, that  live  and  grow  only  externally,  and  have 
neither  feeling  nor  sensation,  cannot  sleep.  It  cannot 
be  denied,  that  there  are  many  plants,  which  under 
the  influence  of  light  and  warmth  close  their  cups  at 
night,  and  open  them  again  in  the  morning,  or  protect 
their  flowers  by  folding  their  leaves  around  them,  and 
by  forming  a  bower  or  by  rolling  up  their  leaves  in  the 
form  of  a  cornet ; — yet  their  sleep,  if  it  may  be  called 
so,  is  but  distantly  analogous  to  that  of  man.  It  is  nev- 
ertheless remarkable,  that  some  flowers  are  so  regular 
as  to  the  time  of  falling  asleep,  that  Linnaeus  conceived 
the  thought  of  establishing  a  Horologium  Florae,  that  is 
a  dial  of  flowers. 

Animals,  on  the  other  hand,  have  feeling  arid  sensa- 
tion ;  they  feel  themselves,  and  they  feel  and  perceive 
the  things  around  them  ;  they  are  consequently  awake 
in  some  degree  at  least,  though  their  state  of  waking, 
resembles  that  of  dreaming,  and  hence  Leibnitz  called 
them  dreaming  monads.  Here  it  will  be  well  to  notice, 
that  livinof  and  beinor  awake  are  different  states  of  exist- 
ence.  The  plant  lives,  but  is  not  awake ;  the  animal 
is  awake,  but  has  no  clear  consciousness.  Animals,  be- 
ing awake,  they  also  sleep.     The  ibex,  which  climbs 

13 


98v.  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

from  mountain  to  mountain,  when  the  time  of  its  re- 
tirement approaches,  seeks  for  a  silent  and  isolated  place 
to  rest  and  enjoy  sleep.  The  eagle  that  sailed  during 
the  day  in  the  air,  and  passed  over  hills  and  valleys,  is 
satisfied  with  a  small  spot  when  the  night  breaks  in. 
Some  animals  sleep  not  only  during  night  or  for  a  short 
part  of  the  day,  but  through  a  whole  season,  or  during 
a  smaller  or  greater  portion  of  it.  Some  fall  asleep 
when  the  cold,  others  when  the  warm,  or  others  when  in 
some  regions  the  rainy  season  makes  its  appearance.  The 
German  rat,  the  marmot,  the  badger,  the  hedgehog,  the 
bear,  all  of  which  love  cold  climates,  sleep  more  or  less 
during  the  whole  winter  ;  the  hedgehog  in  Madagas- 
car, and  the  tanrec  in  the  East  Indies  sleep  during  the 
greater  part  of  summer;  and  so  does  the  crocodile, 
which  remains  stiff  in  the  mire,  hardened  by  the  sun 
until  a  few  drops  of  rain  start  it,  and  make  it  burst  the 
mud  and  go  in  search  of  its  prey.  Among  the  birds  the 
swallow,  the  nest  of  which  is  eatable,  and  some  few  other 
kinds  are  subject  to  this  long  sleep  which  is  also  met 
with  among  men,  but  there  always  as  a  disease.  The 
question  may  be  asked,  whether  all  animals  sleep? 
Some  of  the  lower  classes,  as  infusoria  and  polypi,  that 
have  either  no  nerves  at  all  or  very  few  only,  can  of 
course  sleep  but  little,  because  they  are  awake  but'  lit- 
tle, and  their  existence  is  more  vegetative  than  animal. 
Other  animals  live  constantly  in  a  dull  mixture  of  sleep- 
ing and  waking,  as  the  amphibious  ;  and  some  insects 
sleep  so  slightly,  that  their  sleep  might  better  be  called 
a  kind  of  drowsiness,  for  they  observe  every  thing  going 
on  around  them.  Fish  have  been  seen  following  a 
ship  for  seven  days,  and  as  yet  it  is  doubted  by  many, 
whether  the  dull  life  of  aquatic  animals  stands  in  need 
of  sleep.  From  these  remarks,  it  may  be  sufficiently 
seen,  that  the  sleep  of  animals  differs  not  only  from  that 
.of  man,  but  in  the  different  animals  according  to  the 
degree  inwhich  they  may  be  said  to  be  awake. 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  y^K^^^^^^^^'S^ 

3.  WHAT  IS  THE  DESIGN  OF  BLTE^r  ^  ■C'  *»'  ^*  *    *  - 

Rest  and  activity  are  so  separated  \xv^eiy%m\^^s^^ 
which  lives  on  earth,  that  the  one  exchjdes  the  other, 
or  no  being  can  be  active  and  rest  at  the  sfime  time. 
But  what  cannot  take  place  simultaneously  may  do  so 
in  succession,  and  as  the  night  follows  the  day,  so  rest 
follows  activity,  and  this  again  rest.  Whenever  our  ac- 
tivity continues  for  a  long  time^  it  must  result  in  ex- 
haustion, and  thus  render  itself  impossible ;  and  when 
rest  is  enjoyed  beyond  a  proper  measure,  disgust  and 
weariness  are  experienced.  The  necessity  for  the  al- 
ternate transition  from  waking  to  sleeping,  and  from 
sleeping  to  waking  lies  in  the  above  law,  and  is  con- 
tained in  the  life  of  man.  It  is  the  union  of  mind  and 
body,  and  though  its  activity  is  originally  one,  it  is  or- 
ganized and  utters  itself  by  different  systems.  These 
determine  and  limit  each  other,  so  that  while  each  is 
going  on  in  the  same  body,  neither  interferes  with  the 
other.  Among  these  systems  some  serve  more  the 
growth  and  strength  of  the  body,  others  more  directly 
the  activity  of  the  mind.  But  all  of  them  are  equally 
subject  to  exhaustion,  and  stand,  therefore,  equally 
in  need  of  rest.  They  cannot  consequently  be 
all  of  them- active  in  an  equal  degree  at  the  same  time, 
but  they  must  relieve  each  other,  so  that  while  the  one 
is  principally  active,  the  others  will  be  at  rest  and  for 
the  time  being,  yield  their  dominion.  Were  both  kinds  of 
systems  equally  activeat  the  same  time,  they  would  have 
to  fall  asleep  at  the  same  time,  and  then  nothing  would 
remain  active  in  man  to  awaken  him  again ;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  a  continued  activity  of  the  vegetative 
system  of  the  body  would  finally  stifle  the  life  of  the 
mind,  and  a  continued  activity  of  the  mind  by  the  brain, 
nerves,  and  muscles  would  volatilize  the  body  as  light 
volatilizes  burning  matter.  An  uninterrupted  wakeful- 
ness renders  the  brain  soft  and  watery,  and  causes  in- 
sanity as  long  sleep  suffocates  by  the  growing  and  ac- 
cumulating fat.  Here,  then,  we  may  discover  the  true 
reason  why  plants  cannot  sleep.     They  cannot  be  said 


^^ 


100  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

to  be  active,  and  hence  stand  not  in  need  of  rest,  as  the 
planets  and  stars,  which  are  ever  moving,  never  expe- 
rience fatigue.  Should  we  nevertheless  call  the  growth 
of  plants  an  activity,  it  would  be  necessary  for  us  to 
say,  that  their  activity  and  rest  is  so  united  that  the  one 
cannot  be  distinguished  from  the  other.  "Without  any 
disturbance  their  juices  rise. and  sink;  without  labor 
the  bud  unfolds  itself  in  the  light  of  the  sun  and  scatters 
its  fragrance.  But  the  life  of  the  animal  has  sensation  ; 
through  it,  it  is  attracted  by  the  objects  around  or  repel- 
led by  them  and  its  originally  peaceful  and  harmoni- 
ous activity  is  elicited  and  spent  in  all  directions,  and 
hence  exhaustion  follows  and  rest  becomes  necessary. 
And  all  this  takes  place  in  a  still  higher  degree  in  man. 
The  equilibrium  of  his  mental  life  is  wholly  disturbed 
by  the  occurrences  of  the  day,  by  the  emotions  of  fear 
and  hope,  of  joy  and  pain,  of  solitude  and  anxiety,  of 
love  and  hatred  ;  by  self-interest  and  interest  in  others  ; 
by  desires,  inclinations,  and  passions;  by  cares  and  trou- 
bles, by  the  constant  exertion  of  thinking  and  willing. 
Thus  rest  becomes  in  a  high  degree,  necessary,  and  the 
design  of  sleep  as  regards  the  intellect  is, 

To  grant  rest  to  the  mind.  For,  if  during  the 
state  of  waking,  the  mind  may  be  compared  to  a  living 
spring,  whose  reviving  waters  are  constantly  gushing 
forth  and  flowing  into  many  rivulets  ;  during  sleep  it 
gathers  and  collects  itself,  draws  in  its  many  fold  ac- 
tivities ;  and  thus,  for  a  time,  it  frees  itself  from  the  con- 
trast and  opposition  to  itself  into  which  it  is  brought  by 
the  opposite  nature  of  the  objects,  claiming  its  power 
and  attention  during  its  vvaking.  The  mind  returning 
to  itself,  delivers  itself  from  the  stretch  on  which  it  is 
during  the  whole  day  and  thus  it  is  at  rest. 

It  not  only  rests  in  sleep,  that  is,  ceases  from  labor, 
but  it  is  positively  invigorated  and  strengthened,  and 
this  restoration  of  mental  power  is  another  part  of  the 
design  of  sleep.  It  descends  to  the  state  of  its  original 
existence  to  that  of  the  embryo  and  like  Antaeus,  who 
by  throwing  himself  on  the  earth,  gained  new  strength, 
so  it  recovers  what  it  has  lost  by  its  activity  in  the  world. 
It  is  as  if  it  drew  a  new  supply  of  strength  from  the 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  101 

source  of  its  existence,  and  hence  the  expressions  that 
one  feels  like  a  neiu  creature  after  a  healthy  sleep  or 
halmy  sleeps  are  highly  significant. 

According  to  the  view  taken  here  of  the  design  of 
sleep,  it  would  seem  that  the  mind  sleeps  and  not  the 
body  alone,  or  that  such  is  the  case  of  the  system  of 
sensibility  and  irritability,  and  this  is  true.  Sleep  is 
not  death,  nor  a  separation  of  the  soul  from  the  body  ; 
in  sleep  they  remain  closely  united.  The  mind  sleeps  ; 
it  is  for  a  time  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness,  while  at 
the  same  time  it  has  not  in  the  least  lost  its  conscious- 
ness, this  has  only  become  latent  or  is  for  a  time  veiled.' 
This  state  of  mind  has  been  compared  to  that  of  the 
memory  when  it  possesses  all  the  words  of  a  foreign  lan- 
guage, and  could  call  them  forth  at  any  time,  and  yet 
does  not  remember  one  for  years  because  the  person 
whose  memory  it  is  no  longer  speaks  that  language. 
This  state  is  similar  to  another  activity  of  the  soul, 
which  in  order  to  reflect  on  a  new  idea,  dismisses  for  a 
time  a  previous  one  without  losing  or  forgetting  it.  It 
will  be  understood,  that  the  mind  is  spoken  of  here  in  its 
connection  with  the  body,  and  especially  with  the  nerves 
by  which  it  is  principally  active.  When  these  become 
exhausted,  the  activity  of  the  mind  will  not  cease,  but 
will  be  greatly  diminished  and  consequently  rest.  This 
rest  is  what  we  call  sleep. 

4.  WHAT  ARE  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  SLEEP? 

These  are  many  and  various,  and  that  without  which 
all  the  others  would  be  insufficient,  the  law  is  accord- 
ing to  which  life  cannot  remain  in  one  and  the  same 
state  longer  than  a  certain  time,  and  according  to  which 
its  existence  vibrates  between  activity  and  rest,  sleeping 
and  waking.  This  is  the  case,  in  some  degree  at  least, 
with  the  mind.  Here  we  find,  that  after  serious  labors, 
the  mind  inclines  strongly  to  something  of  a  lighter  na- 
ture. Leibnitz,  when  fatigued  with  study,  delighted  in 
meditating  on  the  improvements  of  wagons;  Keppler 
turned  from  his  astronomical  investigations  to  music. 
The  more  the  mind  has  been  productive  and  self-active 


102  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

in  one  direction,  the  more  it  will  desire  to  be  merely  re- 
ceptive in  another.  After  writing:  much  it  will  be  de- 
lio:htful  to  read  for  a  while.  The  next  condition  of 
sleep  is  a  certain  degree  of  exhaustion  caused  by  activi- 
ty. He  only  sleeps  well  who  wakes  well.  Any  thing 
that  weakens  the  nervous  system,  great  cold  or  heat,  or 
whatever  too  greatly  raises  or  depresses  the  activity  of 
the  sensibility,  or  what  even  wearies  by  not  affording 
suiRcient  excitement,  by  being  too  uniform  or  tedious 
will  make  us  feel  sleepy ;  while  any  thing  that  strongly 
engages  the  mind  will  keep  it  awake.  A  certain  de- 
gree of  indifference  to  the  world  and  to  our  business  is 
indispensable  to  sound  sleep,  and  whatever  promotes 
this  state  of  indifference  will  also  promote  sleep.  Hence 
the  night  with  its  darkness  and  silence  is  the  time  for 
sleep,  for  the  absence  of  light  suffers  the  eye,  through 
which  the  objects  of  the  world  receive  form  and  shape 
and  gain  our  attention,  to  be  at  rest.  Again,  whatever 
promotes  the  growth  of  the  body  is  favorable  to  sleep. 
Fat,  corpulent  and  growing  persons,  especially  chil- 
dren, sleep  more  than  old  persons.  And  finally  sleep 
may  be  caused  by  strong  odors  or  medicines  taken  from 
the  vegetable  kingdom  as  opium,  by  strong  food,  which 
renders  a  higher  degree  of  digestion  necessary,  as  may 
be  seen  from  serpents,  that  after  havmg  eaten  their  prey, 
fall  asleep  ;  by  strong  drinks,  which  force  the  blood  in- 
ward, while  such  as  tea,  that  propel  it  to  the  surface, 
keep  us  awake. 

5.  WHAT  IS  A  REGULAR  SLEEP  r 

That  sleep  we  should  not  hesitate  to  call  regular  and 
healthy,  and  refreshing,  in  which  the  functions  of  diges- 
tion or  of  the  system  of  reproduction  in  general  prevail 
over  that  of  setisibility,  so  that  we  are  not  disturbed  by 
dreams  or  by  cares.  So  is  waking  regular  and  healthy, 
when  we  scarcely  know  that  we  have  a  body,  when  no 
limb  hurts  us,  and  when  the  process  of  digestion  is  not 
in  the  least  perceived.  Sleep  is  irregular  when  it  is 
disturbed  by  unpleasant,  feverish,  or  distressing  dreams, 
and  when  we  often  awake  during  the  night.     The  na- 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  103 

ture  of  sleep  will  differ  according  to  its  prevailing 
causes.  Sleep,  produced  by  strong  drinks,  will  be' 
heavy  and  unhealthy  ;  that  produced  by  cold,  will  be 
benumbing  ;  that  by  too  great  faticrue,  will  be  deep,  ifec. 
Some  instances  of  lethargy  remind  us  of  the  long  sleep 
of  animals.  Schubert  relates  the  case  of  Guiseppe  Cia- 
borri,  who  was  buried  during  an  earthquake  by  the  corpse 
of  his  friend,  and  there  lay  for  fourteen  days  under  the 
ruins  of  hrs  native  city  almost  constantly  sleeping.  A 
sick  person  slept  for  seventeen  weeks  with  but  a  few  in- 
terruptions', and  after  this  long  sleep  recovered  from  his 
disease.  This  shows  that  such  a  sleep  is  sickly.  Anoth- 
er slept  for  seventy  days  and  then  recovered  from  an 
illness  ;  and  Fichet  records  a  case  in  which  a  man  slept 
for  four  years,  only  waking  when  he  felt  hungry. 
Equally  extraordinary  are  the  instances  in  which  per- 
sons have  fallen  asleep  while  on  the  rack.  The  nerves 
being  so  weakened  that  they  could  no  longer  re-act,  be- 
gan to  die,  while  the  rest  of  the  body  seemed  yet  to  live.. 
Sleep  and  death  not  unfrequently  pass  over  the  one  into 
the  other.  Poison,  introduced  into  the  blood,  frequent- 
ly causes  first  a  deep  sleep  and  then  death.  As  we 
have  many  instances  of  such  a  heavy,  lethargical  sleep, 
so  we  have  some  of  an  uncommon  wakefulness.  A 
murderer,  according  to  Schubert,  remained  awake  for 
fourteen  days,  and  though  he  took  gradually  forty  grains 
of  opium,  his  eyelids  would  not  sink  and  grant  him  a 
balmy  sleep. 

6.  WHAT  IS  FALLING  ASLEEP'? 

To  say  all  in  one  word,  we  may  reply  :  a  gradual  in- 
activity of  the  different  senses.  First  of  all  the  eye 
ceases  to  be  awake,  the  eyelid  sinks  and  it  closes  ;  then 
taste  and  smell  become  insensible;  the  ear  yet  hears, 
but  does  not  understand  ;  the  mouth  yawns,  the  mem- 
bers stretch  themselves,  the  head,  as  in  the  embryo,  sinks 
down  on  the  breast,  and  while  for  a  short  time  the  life 
of  the  mind  seems  to  rest  under  the  surface  of  the  body, 
so  that  a  little  excitement  will  call  it  forth  again,  it  soon 
sinks  deeper  until  it  wholly  disappears.     So  the  English 


104  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

soldiers  on  the  fort  of  St.  Philip  heard  no  longer  the 
thunder  of  the  cannons,  but  slept  standing  at  their  posts. 
Physically,  falling  asleep  is  frequently  indicated  by  a 
feverish  pulsation  of  the  blood,  and  always  by  a  rest  of 
the  muscles,  by  a  decrease  of  animal  warmth,  by  slow- 
er, but  deeper  breathing.  As  the  thinking  power  be- 
comes relaxed,  and  loses  accuracy  and  acuteness  as  the 
motion  of  the  muscles  grows  less  energetic,  so  all  ac- 
tivity is  turned  off  from  the  world  and  sinks  back  into 
the  life  of  the  body.  The  eye  of  the  astronomer,  which 
a  moment  since  enjoyed  the  millions  of  golden  stars 
above,  and  roamed  in  immeasurable  space  lets  fall  the 
lid — and  stars  and  space  are  no  more  seen. 

WHAT  IS  AWAKING  1 

When  sufficient  strength  has  been  gained,  one  sense 
after  another  becomes  active  again,  and  man  becomes 
conscious  of  himself,  and  the  world  around.  A  feeling 
of  strength  and  of  vigor,  of  cheerfulness  and  alacrity, 
accompanies  our  awaking,  as  that  of  relaxation  accom- 
panies onr  falling  asleep.  Our  connection  with  the 
world  is  renewed,  and  the  last  thou2:hts,  before  falling 
asleep  again,  present  themselves. — When  life  is  vigor- 
ous, the  transition  from  sleeping  to  waking  is  short, 
though  generally  preceded  by  a  short  morning  sleep. 
The  dark  feeling,  in  which  our  intellectual  life  was 
resting,  becomes  gradually  more  light ;  figures  like 
thoughts  make  their  appearance,  and  an  electric  stream 
of  power  passes  through  limbs  and  muscles,  until  we 
are  fully  awake.  The  process  of  awaking  is  generally 
complete,  when  the  eye  opens,  for  through  it  the  objects 
around  us  can  be  distinguished,  and  hence  it  elicits  our 
judgment  and  thinking,  and  our  desire  for  renewed  ac- 
tivity. 

;     DREAMING.      • 

The  word  dream,  by  a  transposition  of  the  letters  o 
and  r,  comes  from  the  Latin,  Dormio,  which  word 
means  both  to  sleep^  and  to  dream^  as  the  noun  somni- 
um,  means  both  sleep  and  dream.    In  connection  with 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  105' 


# 


sleepino^  we  have  to  consider  that  state  of  the  mind,  in 
which  it  dreams. 

Dreaming  is  generally  described  as  an  involuntary 
action  of  the  soul.  By  involuntary  is  meant,  that  the 
pictures,  images  and  ideas,  running  through  our  sleep, 
are  not  subject  to  our  critical  judgment,  nor  to  our  con- 
scious will,  but  that  they  come  and  go,  appear  and  dis- 
appear, as  if  sent  by  another  power  than  that  of  the 
soul.  ^  Yet  this  definition  of  dreaming  does  not  exhaust 
the  subject.  Dreaming  is  a  state  of  mind,  that  is  made 
up  of  sleeping  and  waking.  The  soul,  when  it  dreams, 
is  neither  wholly  asleep  nor  wholly  awake.  We  are 
awake,  when  we  judge,  consequently  when  we  distin- 
guish between  our  soul  and  body,  between  our  activity 
and  its  results,  between  the  world  and.  ourselves  and 
when  we  know  that  we  make  these  distinctions.  We 
are  asleep,  when  we  are  no  longer  aware  of  these  differ- 
ences and  when  we  cease  to  judge.  Dreaming  is  the 
flowing  together  of  ourselves  with  the  objective  world  ; 
for  while  in  sleep  this  is  wholly  merged  in  a  state  of 
unconsciousness,  in  dreaming  it  emerges  from  it ;  but  not 
having  however  the  power  of  a  clear  and  distinct  judg- 
ment, we  are  not  able  to  keep  the  objective  world  sepa- 
rated from  ourselves,  but  all  our  activities  flow  confu- 
sedly together  with  their  results,  our  perceptions  with 
the  things  perceived,  and  our  imagination  with  its  own 
productions.  Dreaming  then  is  that  state  of  mind,  in 
which  ';.£ 

1.  We  are  not  conscious  of  ourselves  or  of  our  per-  * 

sonality.  We  are  conscious  of  ourselves  when  we 
clearly  distinguish  between  our  soul  and  body  and  ac- 
knowledge their  union.  In  dreaming  this  distinction  is 
gone,  and  hence  we  are  unconscious  of  our  person.  This 
shows  itself  in  all  dreams,  and  more  especially  in  those 
in  which  we  exchange  our  personality  for  that  of  ano- 
ther. Johnson,  in  his  dreams,  frequently  disputed  with 
an  opponent,  and  felt  chagrined,  that  he  had  himself 
the  poorest  arguments.  An  old  Professor  dreamed,  that 
he  was  again  a  student,  and  when  examined  could  not 
answer  the  question  to  which  his  classmate,  sitting  near 
him,  fully  and  readily  replied.   In  both  these  instances  it 

14 


■^ 


# 


106  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

is  evident,  that  the  dreamers  had  no  self-consciousness. 
And  so  it  is  in  all  our  dreams,  for  if  we  were  clearly 
conscious  of  ourselves,  we  should  not  dream,  but  be 
awake.  Without  personality  there  can  be  no  liberty, 
no  vohtion,  no  will.  In  dreaming  then  we  are  incapa- 
ble of  willing  decidedly.  This  it  will  not  be  difficult 
to  prove.  For  when  we  dream  that  we  are  pursued  by^ 
a  mad  dog,  or  any  rapacious  animal,  we  cannot,  how- 
ever much  we  may  try  to  do  it,  discover  the  means  of 
escape.  Our  muscles  seem  powerless,  they  will  not 
move  from  the  place,  they  deny  their  services.  We 
desire  to  be  delivered  from  danger,  we  feel  that  running 
could  be  the  only  way  of  safety  and  yet  we  cannot  take 
a  step.  Nor  is  understanding  and  judgment  active  and 
free  in  dreaming,  but  both  are  merged  in  mere  feeling. 
Some  remarkable  instances  may  seem  to  lie  in  the  way 
of  this  assertion,  and  yet  it  is  nevertheless  true.  If  by 
understanding  we  comprehend  the  man  in  one,  and  if 
by  judgment  we  distinguish  between  the  different  qual- 
ities of  a  thing,  and  separate  one  class  of  beings  from 
another,  we  cannot  exercise  either  power  without  self- 
consciousness,  and  where  this  is  active,  there,  as  has 
been  stated,  we  do  not  dream,  but  wake.  Condillac,  we 
are  told  frequently  finished  treaties  in  his  dreams,  which 
while  he  was  awake,  offered  insurmountable  difficulties. 
Maignan,  a  mathematician  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
in  his  dreams,  solved  problems,  which  he  found  correct, 
when  he  judged  of  them  after  he  awaked.  Reinhold 
discovered  in  a  dream  thededuction  of  the  logical  cate- 
gories, and  so  all  of  us  frequently  feel,  when  we  awake 
in  the  morning,  that  we  have  clearer  ideas  on  some  sub- 
ject than  we  had,  when  we  retired.  Strong  as  these  in- 
stances are  in  favor  of  a  quickened  understanding  and 
judgment  in  dreams,  they  do  not  after  all  prove  what 
they  seem  to  establish.  For  there  is  no  doubt  but  the 
essays  of  Condillac  and  the  problems  of  Maignan,  and 
the  categories  of  Reinhold,  had  not  in  vain  engaged 
the  minds  of  these  men,  but  they  were  well  matured 
and  ripe,  long  before  they  lay  down  to  sleep.  It  often 
so  happens,  that  while  many  impressions,  and  many 
activities  engage  our  mind  at  the  time,  when  we  attend 


* 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  107 

to  a  difficult  subject,  the  results  of  our  meditation  and 
study  will  not  become  manifest  to  ourselves,  because 
some  feeling,  some  impression  veils  it  or  does  not  suffer 
it  to  present  itself  freely,  and  separate  from  the  other 
views  and  ideas,  that  may  occupy  our  thoughts.  After 
we  retire  and  dismiss  the  many  cares  and  interests, 
which  divide  our  mental  energies,  the  principal  subject 
of  meditation  during  the  day  will  enter  into  oiir  dreams 
and  all  the  other  impressions  that  accompanied  it  hav- 
ing disappeared,  the  result  of  our  study  will  be  per- 
mitted to  show  itself  disencumbered.  So  noise  around 
us  frequently  prevents  us  from  remembering  a  certain 
occurrence,  which  is  certainly  treasured  up  in  our  me- 
mory. When  the  noise  ceases,  our  recollection  of  it 
is  at  hand.  The  mountains  are  there,  but  the  mist  ren- 
ders them  invisible  ;  as  soon  as  the  mist  sinks,  they  rise. 
We  experience  the  same,  when,  having  been  for  a  long 
time  engaged  in  some  labor  unsuccessfully,  we  return 
to  it,  after  recreation.  Then  we  are  often  astonished  at 
the  ease  with  which  we  finish  the  work.  No  new  ef- 
forts have  been  made,  no  new  attention  has  been  paid 
to  it,  and  the  greater  facility  must  therefore  result  from 
the  removal  of  something,  that  before  obstructed  our 
efforts. 

The  state  of  mind,  in  -  which  it  neither  comprehends 
nor  judges  nor  is  conscious  of  itself,  must  be  that  of 

Feeling.  The  mind,  as  has  been  shown,  retires  du- 
ring sleep  from  the  manifold  activities  into  which  it 
flows  forth  when  awake.  Yet  its  rest  is  not  inactivity, 
for  this  is  death.  Whatever  is  must  be  active,  and  only 
what  is  active  is  alive.  The  activity  of  the  mind  du- 
ring sleep  is  sunk  into  that  of  feeling.  This,  without 
judgment,  is  an  entire  union  of  subject  and  object,  of  the 
activity  which  feels  and  the  thing  that  is  felt ;  a  union, 
not  resulting  from  the  difference  of  both,  but  one  that 
knows  of  no  difference  whatever.  Thus  all  differences 
in  the  activity  of  the  soul  are  dropped,  and  the  soul  pla- 
ces itself  wholly  and  individually  in  every  feeling  and 
emotion,  or  in  every  word  and  action.  When  we  are 
awake,  we  judge  of  our  actions  as  well  as  of  our  words 
and  feelings ;  our  mind,  when  entering  into  them,  is 


108  ANTHROPOLOGY* 

conscious  of  their  relation  to  itself,  of  their  consequen- 
ces and  propriety.  During  sleep  no  part  of  the  mind  is 
above  our  feelings  or  words,  but  the  whole  mind  rests 
in  an  undivided  manner  in  every  single  emotion  and  in 
every  single  action.  Hence  we  may  explain  how  words 
spoken  in  our  dreams  are  frequently  much  more  beau 
tiful,  much  more  appropriate  than  we  should  have 
chosen  them  when  awake;  hence  it  is  too,  that  our 
emotions  in  our  dreams  are  more  whole-souled  and  con 
sequently  more  animated  ;  and  that  our  sympathies  and 
antipathies  are  more  vehement  than  they  would  be  in  a 
state  of  wakefulness.  As  the  muscular  strength  of  in-, 
sane  persons  is  very  greatly  increased,  when  their 
whole  mind  enters  into  a  passion,  so  are  our  feelings 
in  sleep,  and  their  utterances  in  dreams. 

Some  of  the  feelings,  that  we  thus  have  in  dreams,  will 
be  stronger  than  others ;  these  stronger  feelings  will 
cause  a  difference  in  the  simple  and  harmonious  activity 
of  the  mind  and  disturb  it.  Every  difference  will  lead 
to  variety,  and  hence  the  mind  will  flow  forth  again 
with  its  activity  into  different  channels,  as  in  its  state  of 
waking.  Yet  not  conscious,  that  these  differences  in 
its  activity  are  its  own  productions,  imagination,  the 
principal  power  active  in  dreams,  represents  them  as 
something  strange,  as  something  external,  something  not 
proceeding  from  the  activity  of  the  mind,  but  from  some 
other  source.  Thus  the  identity  and  harmony  of  the 
mind  is  preserved  in  its  dreams,  for  whatever  might  in- 
terfere with  it  is  thrust  out  under  the  form  of  a  strange 
being  or  power.  On  the  other  hand  the  mind  seems  to 
distinguish,  while  on  the  other  it  remains  still  under 
the  influence  of  mere  feelifig.  But  the  activity  of  the 
mind  which  thus  unites  thinking  and  feeling  is 

Imagination.  This  mental  power  does  not  demon- 
strate nor  produce  pure  thoughts  and  make  us  con- 
scious of  them,  but  it  gives  all  ideas  in  a  sensual  form, 
in  a  sensible  image.  While  we  are  awake,  its  opera- 
tions are  accompanied  by  critical  judgment ;  we  reflect 
on  the  images  and  their  appropriateness  to  render  a 
thought  visible.  In  our  dreams  this  critical  judgment 
is^absent,  and  though  we  may  compose  poems  while 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  109 

dreaming,  their  value  can  be  judged  of  by  us  only  when 
we  are  awake;  and  frequently  what  may  please  us  in 
our  dreams,  will  be  found  wholly  incapable  of  satisfy- 
ing our  waking  judgment.  Imagination  is  therefore  act- 
ive, without  our  being  conscious  of  it;  this  i^  sometimes 
the.case  with  poets,  who  write  without  cool  reflection, 
but  then  they  write  by  inspiration,  and  may  be  com- 
pared to  a  burning  torch  which  illuminates  all  around, 
but  does  not  see  itself  nor  understand  its  own  nature. 
As  it  is  the  province  of  the  imagination  to  express  a  gen- 
eral thought  or  truth,  or  that  which  is  common  to  many 
things  of  the  same  kind  by  a  single  concrete  and  indi- 
vidual image  or  symbol,  so  in  our  dreams  it  produces 
images,  concrete  signs  or  symbols  by  which  it  speaks  or 
acts.  The  course  of  an  unfortunate  life,  for  example, 
it  will  describe  by  a  high  mountain  which  we  have  to 
ascend.  Agreeable  or  disagreeable  feelings  which  con- 
nect themselves  with  the  labor  we  have  in  climbing  up 
the  mountain,  will  call  forth  the  images  of  beautiful 
flowers  or  disgusting  anima^ls.  Hence  it  is,  that  we 
can  not  only  speak  in  verses  while  we  are  dreaming — 
because  imagination  is  principally  active,  and  the  soul 
is  wholly  thrown  into  it — but  that  the  language  of 
dreams  in  general  is  replete  with  poetical  beauty,  with 
energy,  and  appropriateness.  Instead  of  words,  we  have 
a  fine  imagery,  thus,  pearls  indicate  tears.  The  wife 
of  Henry  IV.,  of  France,  dreamed  a  few  days  before  the 
murder  of  her  husband,  that  two  splendid  diamonds  had 
been  changed  into  pearls.  So  Goethe,  shortly  before 
he  visited  Italy,  had  a  dream  of  a  symbolical  character. 
He  dreamed  that  he  landed  from  a  large  boat  on  an 
island,  fertile  and  richly  covered  with  vegetation,  where 
he  knew  the  most  beautiful  pheasants  were  offered  for 
sale.  He  directly  traded  with  the  inhabitants  for  these 
beautiful  creatures  which  they  brought  killed,  and  in 
large  quantities.  They  were  genuine  pheasants,  but  as 
dreams  usually  transform  everything,  they  had  long,  col- 
ored-eyed tails  like  those  of  peacocks  or  birds  of  para- 
dise. They  were  brought  by  scores  into  the  vessel, 
their  heads  turned  inward  and  arranged  so  ornamental- 
ly, that  the  long,  variegated  tails  hanging  outwards, 


110  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

formed  in  the  sunshine  the  most  brilliant  arches  imag- 
inable ;  and  so  richly  indeed,  that  room  was  scarcely 
left  in  the  front  and  rear  for  the  oarsmen  and  helmsman. 
Thus  they  cut  the  peaceful  waves,  and  Goethe  named 
to  himself  the  friends  to  whom  he  intended  to  present 
these  gay  treasures.  Though  Goethe  neither  sent  nor 
brought  pheasants  from  Italy  to  his  friends,  he  sent 
many  a  letter,  filled  with  the  riches  of  his  poetical  genius, 
which  received  new  impulses  and  new  materials  from 
the  world  of  art  surrounding  him. — Knowing  the  pow- 
er of  imagination,  we  cannot  feel  astonished  at  the 
choice  which  it  makes  in  our  dreams  of  images,  by 
which  to  convey  its  dark  notions.  A  man,  suffering 
from  cramps  in  his  breast,  saw  himself  attacked  and 
wounded  by  cats  whenever  his  disease  was  about  to  re- 
turn. Nor  shall  we  consider  it  strange,  that  it  frequent- 
ly makes  use  of  images,  which  are  directly  opposite  of 
what  they  are  to  indicate.  Weeping  in  dreams  is  said 
to  announce  great  joyousness  ;  cheerfulness  in  dreams 
foretells  mourning.  To  eat  earth  means  to  gather  rich- 
es ;  beautiful  lilies  apprize  us  of  scorn  which  we  shall 
have  to  endure  from  the  world.  Marriage-feasts  in 
dreams  are  the  messengers  of  misfortune,  as  funeral 
processions  those  of  joyful  occurrences.  Romeo  in  a 
dreamsees  himself  elevated  to  the  dignity  and  splendor 
of  an  emperor,  shortly  before  he  hears  of  the  death  of 
his  Juliet.  In  these  images  of  our  dreams  a  certain  law 
prevails,  when  we  think  them  to  be  arbitrary.  This 
law  is,  that  extremes  elicit  each  other.  Cheerfulness 
and  mournfulness,  marriage  and  death,  the  sounds  of 
joy  and  those  of  grief,  are  found  more  closely  together 
in  nature,  than  we  are  inclined  to  admit. 

Nearly  allied  to  imagination  is  the  activity  of  memo- 
ry. This  likewise  is  often  active  in  our  dreams,  and 
when  not  divided,  and  it  is  animated  by  the  whole  activi- 
ty of  the  mind,  will  of  course  be  more  lively,  more  vivid, 
and  perhaps  more  faithful  in  the  detail  of  occurrences. 
Then  a  gentleman  dreamed,  that  a  person  appeared  be- 
fore his  bed,  offering  to  reveal  to  him  either  his  future 
or  past  life.  He  agreed  on  having  his  past  life  repre- 
sented to  him.     The  person  then  gave  him  a  review  of 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  Ill 

all  that  had  occurred  to  him,  the  greater  part  of  which 
he  would  not  have  been  able  to  recall  when  awake. 
To  explain  this  dream,  we  must  remember  a  remark, 
mnde  above,  that  memory  as  well  as  every  other  power  is 
subject  to  dissipation,  and  that  it  may  treasure  up  occur- 
rences, which  the  manifold  employments  of  the  day  pre- 
vent it  from  bringing  to  our  recollection,  and  while  dream- 
ing its  whole  activity  dwells  on  one  point  only.  It  there- 
forci  represents  past  actions  more  in  the  detail  and  not 
merely  recollects  them,  but  gives  them  all  the  novelty 
of  recent  occurrences.  Dead  persons  die  again  before 
us  ;  we,  in  old  age,  go  again  to  school  with  our  books  un- 
der our  arms.  Yet  memory  in  our  dreams  is  mechanic- 
al ;  not  subject  to  our  will,  so  that  we  might  demand 
certain  things  intrusted  to  it.  It  gives  them  according  to 
the  association  of  ideas,  or  in  some  external  connection, 
or  in  one  borrowed  from  the  memory  in  its  state  of 
waking.  Consciousness  does  not  accompany  its  opera- 
tions. When  awake,  we  classify  the  contents  of  memo- 
ry, and  call  upon  it  to  give  them  according  to  general 
heads  and  classes  ;  this  tendency  to  generalize,  renders 
the  memory  less  inclined  to  depict  and  delineate.  In 
our  dreams  memory  dwells  more  on  the  individual  na- 
ture of  occurrences,  it  loves  the  concrete  and  hence  its 
greater  vividness  and  detail.  There  are  some  dreams, 
that  continue  successively  for  a  number  of  nights,  to 
complete  a  long  story.  Here  it  must  be  remembered 
that  similar  feelings  and  circumstances  will  produce  a 
type  of  a  dream,  which  will  continue  as  long  as  its 
causes  and  conditions  are  the  same,  until  its  subject  is 
exhausted. 

THE  FORM  OF  DREAMS. 

One  delights  in  the  illusions  of  dreaming,  because 
originating  in  ourselves,  they  must  have  some  analogy 
with  the  rest  of  our  life  and  our  fate.     Goethe. 

Dreams  being  destitute  of  a  clear  self-possessed  con- 
sciousness, they  of  course  can  have  no  logical  connection. 
This  has  been  already  shown  from  the  entire  neglect 


r 


112  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

of  the  laws  of  space  and  of  time.  In  space  one  place 
cannot  be  where  another  is,  for  different  places  occupy 
different  positions;  and  so  whatever  exists  in  a  bodily 
form,  while  it  must  be  somewhere,  cannot  be  every 
where.  Dreams  know  nothing  of  these  laws,  but  the 
persons  and  beings  in  them  have  a  kind  oi  ubiquity.  In 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  we  now  are  in  Asia,  and  now 
in  Africa.  Our  imagination  may  likewise  travel  fast 
when  awake,  but  then  the  critical  consciousness  is 
closely  following  it.  And  so  in  dreams  the  laws  of 
time  are  wholly  neglected,  such  as  those  of  succession 
of  the  past,  present,  and  future.  This  succession  enters 
into  our  thoughts  and  actions.  Before  we  act  we  re- 
solve ;  our  resolution,  as  something  present,  is  referred 
to  its  execution  as  something  future.  In  our  dreams 
resolution  and  action  coincide  in  one  moment ;  the  fu- 
ture is  present.  Thus  all  logical  and  all  voluntary 
connectiouis  destroyed.  To  have  clearness  and  dis- 
tinctness in  our  knowledge,  we  must  arrange  it  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  space  and  time  ;  we  must,  for  in- 
stance, cause  our  memory  to  give  up  its  contents  in  the 
regular  order  in  which  they  occurred.  And  not  only 
so,  we  must  perceive  the  relations  of  cause  and  eifect, 
ground  and  consequence.  Where  the  things  contained 
in  dreams  have  nevertheless  a  strictly  logical  connec- 
tion, this  is  not  produced  by  our  dreaming  imao^ination 
or  memory,  but  merely  repeated  by  an  involuntary  as- 
sociation of  ideas,  or  by  our  mechanical  memory.  In 
this  limited  sense  it  may  well  be  said,  as  it  has  been  as- 
serted, that  there  is  both  an  objective  and  subjective 
connection  in  our  dreams.  Dreams  arising  in  our- 
selves must  have  a  swftjec^ive connection,  an  analogy  with  . 
our  disposition,  knowledge,  talents,  and  skill.  There 
must  be  too  an  objective  connection,  for  our  dream- 
ing imagination  must  have  materials  for  its  activity ; 
these  must  be  given  to  it,  and  their  original  connection 
may  preserve  itself  in  our  dreams.  Such  a  connection, 
however,  is  mechanical ;  it  is  like  the  connection  of 
leaves,  that  shaken,  off  by  the  wind,  attach  themselves 
to  each  other  on  the  ground,  or  like  leaves  that  flow 
down  the  same  rivulet,  and  are  united  not  by  their  na- 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  113 

ture,  but  by  the  water  that  carries  them.  The  subject- 
ive connection  of  our  dreams  demands,  however,  our 
particular  attention,  for  these  very  frequendy  betray  our 
true  disposition  and  moral  character.  If  during  the 
time  of  busy  activity  our  conscience  is  not  permitted  to 
speak,  it  will  frequently  burst  its  chains  in  our  dreams 
and  announce  loudly  to  all  that  hear  it,  and  especially 
to  ourselves,  what  is  in  us.  Shakspeare  represents  the 
dreams  of  conscience  very  beautifully  in  Lady  Mac- 
beth. A  celebrated  professor,  who  for  some  time  had 
omitted  offering  his  morning  and  evening  worship, 
prayed  in  his  dreams  a  number  of  nights  in  succession, 
and  repeated'  all  the  bible  prayers  which  he  had  learned 
by  heart  in  his  youth.  The  dream  may  be  an  illu- 
sion, but  the  disposition  from  which  it  arises  will  be 
true.  It  was  on  this  principle,  that  a  Greek  emperor 
had  a  person  executed,  merely  because  the  same  man 
dreamed  of  having  killed  him. 

CAUSES  OF  DREAMS. 

These  are  manifold,  and  it  would  be  difficult  t©  enumer- 
ate all  of  them  and  arrange  them  in  classes.  We  shall 
therefore  point  out  only  a  few,  and  among  the  most 
fertile  ones  are, 

1.  Impressions  on  our  senses.  Thus  we  feel  cold, 
and  our  imagination  leads  us  into  ice-fields ;  light  falls 
upon  our  eyes,  and  we  exclaim  Fire  !  A  philosopher 
dreamed,  that  thieves  were  about  to  kill  him,  and  to  ren- 
der his  death  more  cruel,  they  introduced  a  large  pole 
between  his  toes,  and  tried  to  break  them  out.  He 
awoke  and  found  a  straw  in  the  place  of  the  pole. 
Sometimes  a  disordered  system,  any  thing  lying  undi- 
gested in  the  stomach  will  cause  dreams. 

2.  Whatever  has  much  engaged  us  during  the  day, 
whether  it  has  been  agreeable  or  disagreeable,  will  be- 
come a  source  of  dreams  during  night.  Perhaps  a 
strong  emotion,  suppressed  by  our  will,  while  we  were 
awake,  disturbs  our  sleep  ;  or  a  strong  wish,  the  ful- 
fillment of  which  we  would  not  for  a  moment  consider 
possible  when  waking,  presents  itself  as  realized.    Per- 

15 


114  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

sons  desirous  to  be  rich,  dream  that  they  are  -so. 
Talents,  that  are  not  permitted  to  exhibit  themselves, 
because  our  daily  employment  is  hostile  to  them,  will 
seek  for  an  opportunity  in  our  dreams  of  exercising 
themselves.  And  so  whatever  impedes  any  activity, 
whatever  disturbs  body  or  mind,  will  cause  our  dreams 
and  enter  into  them.  The  ni^litmare  is  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  the  kind.  A  thick  and  impure  air  renders 
breathino:  difficult,  and  our  imagination,  which  views 
every  thing  under  the  aspect  of  a  concrete  form  and 
beinof,  perceives  a  bear  or  cat  lying  on  our  mouths.  Ca- 
ms, Junior,  relates  a  case  from  Sedillot's  Journal  de  Me- 
dicine, which  is  to  the  point  here.  Laurent,  the  phy- 
sician of  the  first  battalion  of  the  reo^iment.  Tour  d'Au- 
vergne,  was  lodged  during  a  night  in  a  deserted  monas- 
tery at  Palmi,  in  Calabria,  when  suddenly  some  persons, 
lying  together  in  narrow  rooms  on  straw,  which  was 
spread  on  the  floor,  came  running  in  much  frightened, 
all  saying  that  they  had  seen  a  ghost-like,  long-haired 
black  dog,^  and  had  distinctly  felt  him  running  over 
their  breasts.  During  the  next  night  Laurent  with 
some  other  officers,  remained  watching,  after  the  sol- 
diers had  been  persuaded  to  retire,  and  without  their 
seeing  any  thing  suspicious,  the  soldiers  were  frightened 
by  the  same  dream,  and  could  not  be  induced  again  to 
return  to  their  lodging  place. 

3.  When  our  intellectual  activity  has  been  exercised 
but  little  or  at  least  less  than  its  power  would  demand 
to  become  relaxed,  when  consequently  it  stands  in  no 
need  of  recreation  and  sleep,  then  dreams  will  follow 
one  after  another,  in  case  we  retire  to  rest.  Our  senses 
close,  but  our  mind  feels  reluctant  to  sleep.  As  a  gen- 
eral rule  it  may  be  stated,  that  we  never  dream  more, 
and  sleep  worse,  than  when  we  wake  little. 

4.  The  nervous  state  of  the  system  when  weakened, 
may  produce  many  dreams.  Persons  in  fever,  in  de- 
lirium will  imagine  they  see  all  kinds  of  images  and  so 
the  dreams  of  nervous  persons  are  full  of  them.  If  in 
this  state  of  health  we  have  no  clear  and  distinct  dreams, 
we  toss  about,  groan  and  sigh,  and  it  frequently  takes 
us  a  long  time  to  awake. 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  115 

Dreams,  springing  from  the  same  causes,  may  be 
much  modified  by  the  disposition  and  character  of  the 
dreamer.  The  natural  difference  of  the  imagination, 
its  degree  of  livehness  and  strength,  and  its  cultivation, 
will  considerably  affect  its  images  and  productions. 
The  imagination  of  the  painter,  and  that  of  the  musi- 
cian, of  the  poet,  and  that  of  the  sculptor  will  certainly 
preserve  their  peculiar  characteristics  in  their  dreams. 
If  the  imagination  is  naturally  productive  and  plastic, 
the  materials  furnished  it  in  the  dream,  will  be  connect- 
ed in  new  ways,  and  as  the  judgment  is  absent,  these 
combinations  will  frequently  be  of  strange  character. 
The  most  opposite  things  will  be  united,  carricatures 
will  be  formed,  animals  speak,  serious  persons  will  ap- 
pear in  ludicrous  situations  and  countries  will  present 
the  most  beautiful  combinations  of  water  and  mountain 
scenery,  and  of  landscapes  of  all  kind.  From  these 
few  remarks,  it  must  be  evident,  that  the  dreams  of 
children,  and  those  of  old  persons,  must  differ  widely 
not  only  in  their  substance,  but  also  in  reference  to  their 
form,  liveliness  and  distinctness;  and  so  again  the 
dreams  of  savages  and  those  of  cultivated  persons. 
The  former  will  consider  them  too  as  being  sent  by  a 
higher  power  and  regard  them  as  possessed  of  divine 
authority.  Animals  too  dream  ;  but  their  dreams  stand 
in  the  same  relation  to  those  of  man,  in  which  their  m- 
stinct  stands  to  the  clear  thinking  of  man.  They  may 
dream  of  pursuing  a  hare  or  chasing  a  stag,  but  their 
dreams  cannot  go  beyond  the  sphere  of  sensation  ;  they 
cannot  produce  new  images,  (fcc. 

PROPHETIC  DREAMS,  PRESENTIMENT,  VISION,  AND 
DEUTERdSCOPY  OR  SECOND.  SIGHT. 

Somnia  sunt  alia  physica,  alia  divina,  alia  diabolica. 

Melancthon. 

We  propose  to  consider  these  different  states  of  mind 
together,  for  they  are  to  be  explained  on  the  same  gen- 
eral principle.  When  speaking  of  sleep,  we  found  it 
useful  to.  glance  at  the  phenomena  of  waking,  and  so 
here  prophetic  dreams  which  we  have  when-asleep,  and 


116  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

presentiments  which  are  the  dreams  of  our  waking 
mind  will  mutually  explain  and  interpret  each  other. 
What  we  mean  by  prophetic  dreams,  will  be  easily  seen 
from  one  or  two  examples.  And  here  we  cannot  help 
.thinking  of  one.  handed  down  by  Cicero,  who,  as  is 
well  known,  was  by  no  means  credulous.  Two  Arca- 
dians came  to  Megara  and  took  different  lodging-places. 
The  one  of  them  appeared  twice  to  the  other  in  a  dream, 
first  seeking  aid  and  then  murdered,  and  stating  that  his 
corpse  would  be  taken  early  in  the  morning  on  a  cover- 
ed wagon  passing  through  a  certain  gate  out  of  the  city. 
This  dream  agitated  the  other,  and  going  at  the  appoint- 
ed time  towards  the  gate,  he  met  the  murderer  with  the 
wagon  and  handed  him  over  to  the  police.  A  lady  of 
my  acquaintance,  was  from  home,  when  a  little  brother 
of  hers  was  killed  by  an  ox.  The  night  after  this  oc- 
currence she  dreamed  that  an  ox-cart  was  sent  for  her, 
in  which  she  was  expected  to  return.  This  dream  af- 
fected her  spirits  so  much,  that  she  expressed  her  appre- 
hensions to  her  friends  in  the  morning.  When  inform- 
ed of  the  misfortune  she  directly  understood  her  dream. 
The  dream  of  Mr.  Williams  of  Scorrierhouse,  near  Red- 
ruth in  Gornwall,  is  fully  related  in  the  London  Times  of 
the  16th  of  August,  1829.  He  was  the  Chancellor  killed 
in  the  vestibule  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  having 
had  the  same  dream  thrice  in  one  night,  he  communi- 
cated it  to  many  of  his  acquaintances  all  of  whom  were 
living  when  the  Times  gave  the  account.  Afterwards  it 
was  ascertained,  that  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day 
Mr.  Perceval  was  assassinated  by  a  certain  Bellingham. 
This  dream  resembles  the  second  sight  of  Mr.  Lodin, 
who  in  the  hour  of  death  saw  the  murder  of  James  V. 

From  these  few  examples  it  will  appear,  that  prophet- 
ic dreams  are  such  as  give  us  information  concernnig 
things  which  would  seem  to  be  inacessible  to  our  com- 
mon senses  at  the  time.  It  cannot  be  denied,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  point  out  the  possibility  of  such  dreams,  yet 
it  must  be  admitted,  that  there  have  been  dreams  of  the 
kind.  To  refuse  belief  in  them  altogether,  would  not 
annihilate  them,  but  merely  remove  them  from  our  con- 
sideration.    It  is  more  easy  to  disbelieve  a  thing  that  is 


m 


ANTHROt»OLOGY.  117 

difficult  to  explain,  than  to  attempt  to  understand  it. 
No  doubt  many  dreams  have  been  exaggerated,  and  to  re- 
ceive all  without  a  critical  jud2:ment,  would  indicate  great 
credulity.  We  shall  therefore  divide  prophetic  dreams 
into  two  classes ;  the  one  embraces  those  dreams, 
the  subject  of  which  is  the  dreamer  himself,  his  health, 
his  state  of  mind,  his  conscience ;  the  other  compri- 
ses all  such  as  foretell  something  foreign  to  the  dream- 
er, but  always  something  that  will  stand  in  a  necessary 
relation  to  the  present,  so  that  if  nothing  occurs  to  pre- 
vent it,  it  must  therefore  develop  itself  from  it.  Dreams 
of  the  j^r5/  class  have  never  been  much  doubted,  for 
physicians  have  too  many  opportunities  of  testifyirtg  to 
their  truth.  Persons  while  yet  well  receive  by  a  dream 
an  impression  of  a  future  disease.  A  woman,  about  to 
be  taken  sick  with  an  inflammation  of  the  brain,  dream- 
ed that  her  heart  was  changed  into  a  serpent  which 
rose  with  awful  hissing  up  to  her  liead.  Her  imagina- 
tion represented  her  disease  symbolically.  Diseases  do 
not  all  at  once  and  suddenly  seize  our  system.  They 
have  their  beginning  and  course,  and  frequently  develop 
themselves  very  gradually.  Yet  however  small  the 
beginning  of  a  disease,  it  is  the  disease  begun.  If  a 
strong  nervous  and  muscular  constitution  may  not  per- 
ceive it  until  it  has  grown  considerably,  there  is  no  reas- 
on to  doubt  the  possibility,  that  a  person  whose  nervous 
system  is  out  of  tune  and  highly-sensitive  when  asleep, 
and  when  his  whole  mind  is  sunk  into  the  state  of  a 
general  feeling  and  raises  and  animates  this,  should  per- 
'  ceive  a  future  disease  even  in  its  very  infancy.  This 
will  become  more  credible,  when  we  consider  that  our 
body  is  a  system,  which  consists  not  of  parts  as  the  ma- 
chine, but  of  organs,  each  of  which  while  it  has  a  pecu- 
liar office  represents  our  whole  life.  The  drop  of  blood, 
that  now  runs  through  the  veins  of  the  eye,  will  soon 
pass  through  every  vein  in  the  body.  In  the  state  of 
health,  when  all  the  organs  are  active  in  perfect  harmo- 
ny, no  difference  is  felt;  but  when  one  of  them  is 
about  to  separate  its  life  from  that  of  the  others,  a 
diflference  between  itself  and  these  must  be  exhibited, 
and  this  will  be  noticed.     Our  explanation  of  prophetic 


118  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

dreams,  it  will  easily  be  perceived,  strips  thetn  en- 
tirely of  the  power  of  prophecy,  for  they  do  not  foretell 
that  which  is  not  yet,  but  that  which  is,  and  which  in 
our  comiiion  state  of  mind  would  be  imperceptible,  be- 
cause it  could  not  sufficiently  affect  our  strong  nerves. 

The  dreams  of  the  second  class,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
seem  to  foretell  future  occurrences  or  to  iiave  a  sensation 
of  things  going  on  at  the  time,  but  at  a  great  distance, 
like  the  dream  of  Mr.  Williams,  are  founded  either  on 
sympathy^  as  we  shall  see  when  we  speak  of  presenti- 
nmet,  or  on  our  knowledge  of  a  necessary  connection  ex- 
isting between  the  foundation  and  that  which  rests  upon 
it.  So  Franklin  often  perceived  in  his  dreams  the  results 
of  the  labor  to  which  he  had  attended  during  the  day. 
These  results  were  owing  to  the  faithfulness  with  which 
he  executed  his  business.  The  plant  lies  likewise  in 
the  seed  as  to  possibility,  and  any  one  who  sees  the 
seed  may  prophecy  what  the  plant  will  be  that  shall 
grow  forth  from  it.  Only  those  occurrences  may, 
therefore,  be  foretold  by  our  dreams,  the  premises  of 
which  are  known  to  us,  but  it  would  be  mere  supersti- 
tion to  believe  that  we  could  anticipate  in  dreams  the 
actions  of  a  free-will. 

The  whole  subject  before  us  will  become  more  plain 
by  considering  the  nature  of  presentiment,  vision,  and 
second  sight.  We  shall  also  here  preface  each  of  these 
states  of  mind  by  giving  one  or  two  examples  :     - 

Jung  Stilling,  in  his  Almanac  of  1808,  relates  a  re- 
markable presentiment  of  a  minister,  who  was  taking  » 
walk  with  the  intention  of  visiting  a  rocky  mountain 
near  his  house,  and  of  enjoying  the  beautiful  view  from 
it.  While  approaching  the  summit  of  the  mountain  he 
felt  restless  and  uneasy  ;  unable  to  explain  this  feeling, 
he  asked  himself,  whether  it  was  right  for  him  to  spend 
his  time  thus  idly,  and  busied  in  such  thoughts,  he 
stepped  aside  for  a  moment  to  seek  a  cool  place  under  a 
wall  formed  by  the  rock.  He  had  scarcely  left  the  nar- 
row path  leading  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  when  a 
large  stone,  breaking  loose  from  the  rest  of  the  rock, 
with  great  vehemence  struck  the  spot,  where  one  mo- 
ment before  he  was  standing :    The  Reverend  John 


"^P- 


-i 

ANTHROPOLOGY.  119 

Dodd,  one  evening,  when  already  undressed,  felt  a 
great  agitation  in  his  mind  which  was  wholly  unac- 
countable to  him.  It  seemed  to  him,  that  he  ought  to 
go  and  visit  a  friend,  who  lived  a  mile  or  two  off  from 
him.  His  familytried  to  dissuade  him  from  going  that 
night,  but  their  efforts  were  in  vain.  Mr.  Dodd  went, 
dark  as  it  was,  and  on  arriving  at  the  house  of  his  friend, 
he  found  him  ready  to  commit  suicide.  His  unexpect- 
ed visit  and  counsel  prevented  the  deed  forever,  and  his 
friend  became  converted  by  divine  grace  :  Schiller,  the 
great  poet,  was  in  the  habit  of  walking  with  his  stew- 
ard ;  at  one  time,  when  passing  on  a  rugged  path, 
through  a  pine  wood  and  between  high  rocks,  he  was 
seized  by  a  feeling  that  some  person  must  be  buried 
there.  Some  time  after  he  was  informed  of  the  mur- 
der of  a  wagoner  committed  at  the  place,  on  which  he 
had  the  presentiment.     ,      ,    - 

Presentiment — if  now  we  should  define  it — is  the 
dark  foreboding  of  something  taking  place  either  in 
ourselves  or  around  us.  This  foreboding  is  a  dark  feel- 
ing not  understood  by  us  ;  a  general  feeling  of  restless- 
ness, strange  and  altogether  uncommon.  Its  possibility 
must  not  be  considered  as  a  privilege  of  the  mind,  to 
dive  into  futurity  or  distance,  but  as  a  disease  and  weak- 
ness, by  which  it  sinks  from  its  state  of  clear  waking 
into  that  of  dreaming  and  drowsiness,  or  from  its  state 
of  human  life  into  that  of  animal  existence.  For  ani- 
mals, whose  life  is  more  or  less  plunged  into  the  general 
life  of  nature,  and  penetrated  by  it,  and-  whose  feeling 
is  that  of  sympathy  with  the  elements,  in  which  they 
live,  have  a  high  degree  of  presentiment.  They  seek, 
like  the  fish,  distant  waters,  or  like  the  bird,  countries 
afar  off;  they  announce,  while  the  sky  is  yet  serene 
and  clear  the  approach  of  a  shower,-  and  when  the  in- 
habitants around  Vesuvius  feel  secure,  the  nightingale 
prophecies  a  near  eruption,  and  flutters  about,  sending 
forth  heart-rending  notes.  The  less  a  being  is  independ- 
ent of  the  element  in  which  it  lives,  the  more  quickly 
it  will  perceive  the  changes  going  on  in  it,  and  again 
the  less  it  can  counteract  an  impression,  the  more  ve- 
hemently it  will  be  affected  by  it.     If.  in  a  state  of 


«r 


120  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

health  we  handle  metals  as  we  please,  and  perceive  no 
effect  from  them,  the  mere  touch  of  a  ruby  on  the  hand 
will  cause  to  some  diseased  persons  pain  in  the  arm,  or 
_  a  feelintr  of  coldness  and  heaviness  in  the  tong^ue. 

It  is  certainly  an  erroneous  idea  to  think,  that  we 
can   perceive  by  our  common  senses  all  the  powers  of 
nature*     Many  of  them  have  only  lately  become  known 
to  us.     The  celebrated  Brown  divided  substances  into 
parts,  «o  infinitely  small,  that  they  were  smaller  than 
the   four   thousandth   part  of  an  inch;  he   then  scat- 
tered them  into  the  air,  while  not  a  breath  was  stirring 
and  observed  them  moving  about.     As  the  motion  could 
not  be  their  own,  he  concluded  that  there  was  a  power, 
which  communicated  it  to  them.     This  power  is  now  ' 
ascertained  to  be  in  constant  motion,   and  to   pervade 
us,  but  we  have  in  a  healthy  state  of  our  nervous  sys- 
tem no  sense  by   which  we  may  perceive  it.     This 
magnetic  stream  is  nevertheless  equally  as  certain,  as 
the  electric  influences  upon  us,  though  we  cannot  disco- 
ver by  our  senses  the  polar  relations  in  many  chemical 
affinities.     These  activities,  however,  exist  and  may  be- 
come known    to  us  in  two  different  ways,  either  by^  a 
change  taking  place  in  them,  or  by  one  in  ourselves. 
That  only  is  perceptible  to  us,  which  can  affect  our 
senses,  because  it  is  strong  enough  to  resist  their  activity. 
If  the  senses  are   excitable,   the  impression  needs   not 
be  strong,  to  be  perceived ;  if  they  are  healthy,  it  must 
be  energetic.     We   are  penetrated  by  electric  powers, 
without  our  feeling  them.     The  eye,  when  it  is  pressed 
against  any  thing,  flashes  forthe  lectrical  sparks,  and  the 
skin  of  the  cat,  when  rubbed,  emits  them.     As  soon  as 
this  electric  power  approaches  us  with  sufficient  energy, 
we  perceive  it.     So  when  we  touch  an  electrical  fish 
or  eel.     Prom  this  it  follows,  that  when  the  external 
state  of  a  natural  power  is  changed,  we  may  receive 
impressions  from  such  as  left  us  perfectly  free  before. 
And  so  It  is  when  our  own  nervous  system  becomes  > 
more  excitable  ;  then  natural  agencies  will  be  perceived, 
though  their  energy  should  remain  the  same.      The 
distance  from  which  these  agencies  reach  us,  cannot 
form  any  objection,  or  even  cause  any  difficulty  in  un- 


ANTHROPOLOQY.  121 

derstanding  this  theory.  For  if  the  eye,  by  the  medium 
of  light,  may  be  set  in  connection,  for  example,  with  the 
Sirius,  which  is  so  many  thousand  miles  distant  from 
us ;  if  the  ear,  so  small  an  organ  hears  the  sound,  that 
originated  twenty  or  thirty  miles  from  us,  and  if  we  cannot 
conceive  the  possibility  of  all  this,  what  right  have  we 
to  refuse  belief  in  the  possibility,  that  magnetic  and 
electric  powers,  may  impress  us  from  a  greater  or  shorter 
distance  ?  If  these  remarks  are  correct,  it  cannot  es- 
cape us,  that  the  more  we  are  merged  in  the  general  life 
of  nature,  the  more  we  shall  sympathize  with  all  its 
changes,  and  the  more  distant  activities  with  which  its 
agencies  are  connected,  will  become  perceptible  to 
those  whose  nervous  system  is  capable  of  receiving 
impressions  from  them.  On  a  similar  ground  we  must 
explain  presentiment  concerning  friends ;  they  rest  on 
deep  sympathy  with  them,  on  a  kind  of  polar  relation. 
Should  a  presentiment  become  more  clear,  and  assume 
the  form  of  prediction,  it  must  be  remembered,  that  the 
future  has  its  origin  in  the  present  and  that  it  must 
spring  up  from  thissource,  as  does  the  tree  from  the  seed. 

Presentiments  may  become  visions  when  our  imagin- 
ation gives  them  form  and  shape.  They  then  will 
appear  to  us  from  without  as  images,  which  to  the  vision- 
ary seem  to  have  reality.  The  images  will  not  be  pro- 
duced arbitrarily  by  our  imagination,  but  they  will 
emerge  from  our  feelings  and  be  calculated  to  represent 
theirgeneral  nature,  which  is  either  agreeable  or  disa- 
greeable. When  they  proceed  from  the  feelings,  that  ac- 
company the  activity  of  conscience,  then  they  will  often 
assume  the  forms  of  good  or  evil  spirits,  because  they  will 
symbolically  represent  feelings,  flowing  forth  from  a 
quiet  or  disturbed  conscience.  Yet  before  we  define 
vision,  it  may  not  be  disagreeable  to  give  a  general  no- 
tion of  it  by  a  few  instances  : 

Petrarch,  when  at  Vaucluse,  saw  Laura  approach 
him  at  three  different  times  during  one  night;  fear 
seized  his  limbs,  and  the  blood  returned  to  his  heart. 
Trembling  he  left  the  house,  to  breathe  more  freely. 
He  climbed  a  rock,  he  walked  through  the  woods  and 
looked  around  on  all  sides  to  see  whether  Laura  was 

16 


122    '  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

following  him.  "  No  one  will  believe  me,  but  it  is  true  ; 
1  saw  her  on  remote  places,  where  I  thought  to  be 
alone  ;  from  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  from  the  basin  of  a 
fountain,  from  the  cave  of  a  rock,  from  clouds,  (fee. 
Fear  made  me  immovable,  I  knew  not  what  would  be- 
come of  me,  and  whither  I  should  go  !"  Torquato  Tasso 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life,  was  firmly  convinced, 
that  a  friendly  ghost  was  in  the  habit  of  appearing  to 
him.  His  friend,  the  knight  Manso,  expressed  his  un- 
belief to  him,  and  was  requested  to  convince  himself  by 
being  personally  present  at  one  of  his  conversations  with 
the  apparition.  Manso  agreed  to  it,  but  while  Tasso 
conversed  with  his  specter,  he  could  see  nothing  at  all. 
One  of  the  finest  visions  ever  seen  by  any  man,  is  no 
doubt  that  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  which  we  shall  give 
here  in  a  free  extract  from  Goethe's  works.  Cellini, 
the  Italian  artist,  during  his  last  imprisonment  frequent- 
ly prayed  to  God,  that  he  would  show  him  in  a  dream 
once  more  the  disk  of  the  sun.  One  morning  he  arose 
early  and  prayed  fervently  that  God,  by  divine  inspira- 
tion, would  communicate  the  cause  to  him,  why  he  was 
not  worthy  of  seeing  the  sun  even  in  a  dream.  While 
praying,  and  lost  in  the  wish  of  seeing  the  sun,  the  Lord 
seized  him  in  the  manner  of  a  wind,  and  led  him  into 
a  large  room,  where  he  appeared  to  him  in  the  form  of 
a  beautiful  youth.  He  then  saw  a  great  number  of 
persons,  through  the  midst  of  which  he  had  to  force 
his  way.  At  length  he  arrived  at  a  narrow  door,  by 
which  he  entered  a  small  street.  Raising  his  eyes  he 
perceived  the  sun,  shining  upon  a  high  wall.  The 
Lord  then  told  him  to  walk  up  to  a  high  edifice  by  a 
few  steps,  where  he  saw  the  sun  in  its  full  glory.  After 
a  while  the  rays  of  light  inclined  to  the  left  of  the  sun, 
and  the  disk  became  pure  and  clear,  and  appeared  like 
a  bath  of  purest  gold.  Soon  after  this,  the  middle  of 
the  golden  circle  expanded  and  became  elevated,  when 
all  at  once  Christ  on  the  cross  became  visible,  of  the 
same  pure  gold,  of  which  the  sun  was,  and  so  beautiful 
and  so  benign,  that  no  human  mind  could  have  imagined 
the  thousandth  part  of  such  beauty.  Then  Christ  mo- 
ved to  the  left,  and  the  center  of  the  circle  again  ex- 


i» 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  -   l23 

paneled,  and  showed  the  beautiful  figure  of  the  holy- 
virgin.  She  sat  elevated,  her  son  in  her  arms,  and  a 
smile  on  her  face.  On  both  sides  two  angels  stood  of 
great  beauty.  "All  this  1  saw  clearly  and  really,  and 
thanked  God  constantly  with  a  loud  voice." — The 
images  of  vision  originate  in  the  same  way,  as  those  of 
our  dreams.  Here  also  it  is  a  strong  feeling,  by  which 
our  whole  mind  is  absorbed,  by  which  its  volition  and 
clear  consciousness  are  held  down.  The  mind  resting 
wholly  in  this  feeling — as  for  instance  that  of  Petrarch  in 
the  feeling  of  love — will  animate  and  raise  it.  Thus 
this  feeling  will  re-act  in  uncommon  strength,  or  render 
every  other  emotion  subject  to  it,  and  as  the  mind  is 
lost  in  it,  imagination,  which  is  nearest  allied  to  feeling, 
will  represent  it  in  a  concrete  form,  under  an  individual 
image,  and  place  it  without  us.  This  is  indeed  the  case 
with  every  artist,  with  the  painter,  the  sculptor,  the 
poet.  Their  inicvgination  transfers  a  thought  or  feeling 
into  an  image,  which  of  course  they  must  see  as  clearly 
before  them,  as  if  it  existed  in  reality.  Yet  there  is 
this  difference  between  the  images  of  the  artist,  and  the 
visionary.  The  artist  controls  his  imagination  by  a 
conscious  judgment ;  he  distinguishes  between  it  and 
its  productions,  and  comprehends  the  latter  as  his  own. 
The  visionary  looks  upon  them  as  possessed  of  reality  ; 
he  views  them  not  as  proceeding  from  him,  but  as  ap- 
proaching him  from  without.  And  here  it  must  be  re- 
marked, that  the  feeling,  which  gives  rise  to  such  a 
vision,  may  again  be  represented  as  being  itself  caused 
by  the  vision.  So  a  woman  entertained  for  a  consider- 
able time,  the  idea  of  committing  suicide  ;  but  the  voice 
of  her  conscience  unnerved  her  arm.  One  morning 
however  she  plunged  herself  into  a  deep  well,  and 
while  standing  up  to  the  chin  in  the  water,  she  suddenly 
perceived  a  guardian  spirit,  that  extended  his  hand  to 
assist  her  in  getting  out  of  the  well  again.  This  friend- 
ly apparition  no  doubt  was  the  voice  of  her  conscience, 
whose  words  were  put  into  the  mouth  of  an  image, 
which  her  own  imagination  had  produced.  So  it  is 
known  that  the  celebrated  Blake,  the  English  painter, 
frequently  saw  before  him  the  forms  of  Dante,  Milton, 


m 


124 


ANTHROPOLOGY, 


Virgil  and  Pindar,  as  if  ihey  were  his  contemporaries. 
Once  Milton  communicated  to  him  a  poem,  that  had 
not  been  published  before  in  his  collected  works.  The 
poem  was  by  Blake,  but  his  vision  made  it  appear  to 
come  from  Milton. 

Visions,  though  their  name  is  derived  from  visus, 
sight,  are  not  confined  to  the  eye  only,  but  all  the  sen- 
ses may  share  them.  Suso,  for  instance,  ate  strawber- 
ries that  were  offered  him  in  neat  baskets.  Nicolai  felt 
all  the  pain,  caused  by  a  bristly  serpent,  winding  itself 
arouad  his  body.  Jacob  Boehme,  in  the  hour  of  death, 
heard  beautiful  music,  which  was  inaudible  to  every 
one  of  the  bystanders.  Yet  the  eye  is  most  favorable  to 
visions.  It  easily  produces  phantoms.  Irregular 
points,  indistinct  outlines,  confused  spots  will  induce  it, 
especially  during  moonlight,  to  draw  them  out  into  reg- 
ular forms.  If  our  imagination  be  strong,  and  our 
judgment  weak,  and  our  conscience  not  perfectly  at 
peace  with  us,  we  shall  see  spectres  and  ghosts  of  all 
kinds,  and  thus  tremble  at  the  creations  of  our  own 
mind.  The  eye  is  the  sense  too,  that  more  readily 
obeys  the  internal  urgency  of  imagination,  and  will 
more  easily  see  those  images,  which  imagination  neces- 
siates  it  to  form. 

Second  sight  is  the  last  of  the  phenomena  of  mind 
under  consideration.  It  differs  from  presentiment  and 
vision,  and  again  contains  both  united.  Vision  has  but 
rarely  any  thing  to  do  with  predictions  and  future 
events  ;  it  considers  its  images  to  be  present  and  not 
future.  Presentiment,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  dark 
foreboding  of  something  distant,  either  in  space  or  time. 
Second  sight  while  it  differs  from  both,  has  much  in 
common  with  each.  It  unites  in  itself  the^ foreboding  of 
presentiment,  and  the  clearness  and  distinctness  of  vis- 
ion. Or  it  is  a  presentiment,  that  exhibits  its  foreboding 
in  such  an  image,  as  its  substance  demands.  Hence  it 
is  a  vision,  that  without  much  imagination,  indicates 
exactly  what  it  represents.  A  lady,  whose  husband 
was  from  home,  saw  him  return  on  the  public  road, 
when  all  at  once  he  disappeared  before  her  eyes.  Af- 
terwards she  received  information  of  his  death,  while 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  125 

traveling  homeward. — The  explanation  of  second  sight 
seems  at  first  to  be  extremely  difficult ;  but  if  the  theo- 
ry of  presentiments  and  visions  has  been  understood, 
that  of  second  sight  cannot  remain  concealed  from  us, 
for  it  is  nothing  else  than  the  union  of  both.  Here  as  well 
as  in  presentiments,  nothing  can  be  foretold  that  has  not  its 
foundation  in  the  elements  surrounding  us,  or  in  the  inti- 
mate and  close  sy  mpathy  which  we  feel  wi  th  near  acquain  t- 
ances,  friends,  and  relatives.  There  have  been  little  is- 
lands, on  which  the  second  sight  was  extremely  common. 
Thus  Faro  island,  the  islands  around  Scotland  and  some 
valleys  in  other  parts  of  Europe,  the  Steinthal  (fee,  have 
been  long  known  for  their  number  of  seers.  The  in- 
habitants of  these  islands  and  valleys  are  much  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  ;  the  silence  and  retirement 
of  their  residences  makes  them  nieditate  much  on  them- 
selves, and  live  more  in  each  other :  their  cultivation  is 
not  that  of  the  mind  in  general,  not  that  of  judgment 
and  reflection,  but  more  that  of  feeling  ;  hence  their  re- 
lation to  each  other  is  based  on  the  heart  more  than  on 
the  calculations  of  the  understanding.  Circumstances 
well  known  to  the  seer,  impress  his  mind,  and  as  this  is 
merged  greatly  in  feeling,  affect  deeply  the  latter  ;  this 
aflection  of  the  feeling,  instead  of  reflecting  on  it  and 
expressing  its  substance  clearly,  will  be  pronounced 
darkly,  and  in  the  form  of  presentiment  by  the  seer, 
whose  imagination  will  see  the  future  in  the  present, 
and  the  effect  in  the  cause,  and  represent  it  as  vision  does. 
Or  the  probability  of  an  occurrence  is  to  be  ascertained 
by  judgment ;  but  the  seer,  not  exercising  it,  perceives 
it  by  mere  feeling,  and  his  fears  or  hopes  set  his  imagin- 
ation into  operation,  and  he  sees  as  real  and  present 
what  his  fears  and  hopes  anticipate.  This  explanation 
will  be  found  correct,  at  least  with  regard  to  one  kind  of 
second  sights,  when  we  consider  that  the  seers  in  Scot- 
land have  been  generally  of  very  low  rank  and  almost 
without  any  cultivation,  wholly  living  in  the  state  of  na- 
ture ;  and  when  we  add,  that  those  clans  which  had 
seers,  were  frequently  isolated,  living  entirely  within  the 
sphere  of  their  own  families.  In  such  a  life  every  feel- 
ing and  motion  of  one  member  would  easily  communi- 


SI 


126 


ANTHROPOLOGY. 


cate  itself  to  all.  As  the  cultivation  of  the  mind  be- 
comes more  refined,  and  the  intercourse  with  the  world 
greater,  second  sight  becomes  less  frequent.  When  ive 
have  often  a  presentiment,  that  some  friend  or  other 
will  pay  us  a  visit,  the  seer  adds  the  image  and  such 
other  circumstances  as  may  render  themselves  probable 
to  his  feeling.  The  more  retired  we  live,  the  more  im- 
portant the  visit  from  a  friend  would  be,  and  the  more 
it  will  engage  our  imagination.  If  our  presentiment  is 
called  forth  by  circumstances  that  render  such  a  visit 
probable,  for  instance  by  fine  weather,  or  by  the  idea  of 
leisure  or  any  thing  known  to  be  favorable,  the  seer 
does  not  leave  it  with  this  dark  impression,  but  per- 
ceives the  ship  at  great  distance  and  the  persons  in  it, 
and  even  the  dress  they  wear.  Thus  the  seer  per- 
ceives at  a  distance,  what  in  reality  he  only  sees  in  him- 
self Second  sight,  no  doubt,  in  many  instances  is  pro- 
duced by  magnetic  or  other  natural  influences,  which 
will  even  affect  animals,  as  for  example,  horses  ;  but 
there  is  certainly  nothing  miraculous  about  it.  Another 
remark  may  not  be  out  of  place  here.  Thousands  of 
impressions,  ideas,  notions  pass  through  our  mind,  and 
are  no  longer  remembered  ;  they  seem  to  be  gone,  with- 
out having  left  a  trace.  And  yet  while  every  sensation 
appears  and  disappears,  none  is  lost,  but  each  affects  the 
mind  and  exercises  an  influence  upon  its  character.  This 
influence  will  be  felt  long  after  the  individual  impression 
is  forgotten.  Though  never  remembered  again  as 
single  impressions,  they  may  therefore  breathe  life  into 
our  words,  and  a  peculiar  power  into  the  productions 
of  our  minds.  The  elements  lie  in  the  soul,  unknown 
to  him,  whose  soul  it  is ;  how  much  might  be  explain- 
ed concerning  visions  and  second  sight,  if  these  dark  ele- 
ments were  always  known  to  us. 

Second  sight  is  not  any  thing  arbitrary.  Some  seers 
it  is  true,  received  payment  for  second  sights,  but  their 
visions  were  frequently  full  of  deception.  Seers  can- 
not call  them  forth,  when  they  desire  to  have  them,  nor 
keep  them  off  when  they  approach  them.  A  seer  who 
was  warned  by  his  minister  and  admonished  not  to  in- 
dulge second  sights,  saw  during  a  sermon  the  corpse  of 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  127 

a  person  then  alive  on  the  same  place  where  that  per- 
son afterwards  was  buried. 

Second  sight  is  principally  met  with  among  the  un- 
cultivated, as  Johnson  has  remarked,  and  as  will  ap- 
pear from  the  history  of  idolatry, — the  Shaman  are  a 
remarkable  instance — Swedenborg,  a  learned  and  culti- 
vated man,  imagined  himself  to  have  traveled  into  other 
worlds,  and  thus  mistook  the  productions  of  his  own 
mind  for  genuine  realities.  So  it  was  with  the  pious 
Oberlin,  who  was  in  possession  of  a  map,  on  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  showing  to  the  family  that  had  lost 
one  of  its  members,  where  the  soul  of  their  departed 
friend  was  to  dwell.  Savages,  like  Swedenborg,  say 
that  their  souls  are  traveling  when  they  dream.  The 
idea,  however,  that  the  soul  can  leave  the  body  and 
wander  into  distant  places  has  been  favored  by  many 
cultivated  persons,  yet  always  by  such  as  were  a  little 
diseased  in  their  minds. 

The  fear  of  ghosts  and  specters,  so  common  among 
all  nations,  and  especially  in  their  infancy,  originates  in 
a  manner  similar  to  visions.  The  specters  are  but  the 
productions  of  the  imagination,  sometimes  called  forth 
by  an  external  impression  on  the  senses.  The  state  of 
the  conscience  will  render  them  more  or  less  terrible,  so 
that  in  proportion  as  we  fear  these  ghosts,  we  in  reality 
fear  ourselves.  If  our  hearts  are  pure  and  we  are  heav- 
enly minded,  the  fear  of  ghosts  will  vanish,  as  legends 
give  us  to  understand,  when  they  require  nothing  more 
than  a  prayer  to  disperse  specters.  When  our  con- 
science is  troubled,  we  shall  feel  alarmed  especially  at 
night  by  the  supernatural  world  and  its  inhabitants.  As 
we  see  ourselves  in  part,  when  see  specters,  so  we  may 
see  ourselves  wholly,  and  such  a  sight  of  ourselves  gen- 
erally is  thought  by  the  credulous  to  indicate  death. 
Goethe  saw  himself  on  the  public  road  near  Strassburg, 
in  a  gray  suit  on  horseback,  as  he  really  eight  years  af- 
terwards rode  on  the  same  spot,  but  continued  to  live  a 
long  time  afterwards. 


4  r 


128        '  ANTHROPOLOQY. 


MAGNETIC  SLEEP. 


There  is  scarcely  a  subject  of  Psychology  more  con- 
tested, than  the  one  whicli  we  now  approach.  While 
some  reject  it,  without  having  cooly  examined  it,  others 
superstitiously  and  without  any  discrimination  receive 
every  fact  related,  if  it  is  only  uncommon  and  miracu- 
lous.    It  may  be  well  to  glance  at  both  parties. 

The  one  of  them  rejects  animal  magnetism,  because  its 
phenomena  are  extraordinary  or  out  of  the  common  ex- 
perience. They  do  not  faithfully  investigate  and  then 
judge,  but  determined  to  admit  to  be  true  only,  what 
can  be  handled  and  what  will  easily  be  explained  on 
common  principles,  they  are  ready  to  condemn  what- 
ever is  not  analogous  to  their  other  experience.  They 
wholly  forget,  that  nothing  is  true,  because  we  experi- 
ence it ;  but  that  we  experience  it,  because  it  is  true  or 
because  it  has  reality.  Experience  does,  therefore,  not  af- 
fect the  truth  of  any  thing,  but  only  corroborates  or  con- 
firms it.  If  Whately,in  imitation  of  Thomas  Campanella, 
who  died  1639,  and  who  attempted  to  prove  that  Charles 
the  Great  never  lived,  wrote  an  essay,  the  object  of  which 
was  to  show  how,  by  historical  scepticism,  the  life  of  Na- 
poleon might  be  considered  a  fiction,  he  could  expect  to 
succeed  only  on  the  principle  of  Sallust,  according  to 
which  men  are  willing  to  admit  what  is  common,  but 
always  inclined  to  reject  what  in  the  least  extends  be- 
yond their  own  capacities.  These  persons  who  prove 
everything  by  facts,  and  consider  facts  the  basis  of  all 
knowledge,  will  reject  theni  as  soon  as  they  do  not  corres- 
pond with  other  facts  known  to  them.  Satisfied  with 
the  use  of  the  world,  they  never  dream  of  any  thing  be- 
sides that  which  is  visible,  and  yet  every  production  of 
nature  rests  on  an  invisible  power,  everything  that  is 
perceptible  on  something  that  is  concealed. 

The  other  party  is  always  looking  out  for  facts  of 
magnetic  sleep,  that  will  astonish  the  world.  If  these 
phenomena  could  be  explained,  their  interest  in  animal 
magnetism  would  be  gone.     They  are,  therefore,  as 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  129 

anxious  to  receive  all  facts  without  reflecting  on  thenn, 
as  the  others  are  to  denounce  them.  The  former  party 
thinks^  but  thinking  makes  it  an  unbeliever  ;  the  latter 
believes^  but  fears  to  think,  and  thus  want  of  thought 
makes  it  superstitious.  To  it  the  facts  are  too  high  and 
too  strong;  it  cannot  grasp  them,  but  must  admit  them 
and  hence  feels  an  unbounded  respect  for  them,  almost 
considering  them  of  divine  origin  and  as  divine  commu-  i^  ^ 
nications.  * 

Both  parties;,  it  may  be  easily  seen,  render  it  difficult 
to  themselves  to  get  a  correct  idea  of  magnetic  sleep.. 
If  the  thinker  could  once  convince  himself  of  magnetic 
phenomena  in  sleep,  he  could  certainly  no  longer  con- 
tinue his  opposition  ;  if  the  superstitious  believer  could 
understand  their  laws,  he  would  cease  to  gaze  with  rev- 
erence upon  them.  Bat  how  can  the  one  become  con- 
vinced of  fl\cts,  and  the  other  of  their  laws,  if  both  either 
do  not  investigate  the  subject  or  examine  it  with  pre- 
conceived notions  ?  When  persons,  prejudiced  against 
the  idea  of  magnetic  sleep,  offer  themselves  to  the  mag-  , 
netizer,  and  then  find  that  manipulation  will  effect 
nothing  with  them,  they  will  at  once  have  done  with  the 
matter.  And  yet  they  forget,  that  the  relation  between 
the  magnetizer  and  the  magnetized  is  a  polar  one,  that 
on  the  part  of  the  magnetized  it  is  a  disease,  both  bodi- 
ly and  mentally,  that  it  demands  confidence  and  faith, 
without  which  persons,  subject  to  animal  magnetism 
will  feel  an  antipathy  and  yet  be  thrown  into  convul- 
sions if  an  attempt  is  made  to  put  them  asleep.  A  sym- 
pathy between  the  magnetized  and  magnetizer  is  indis- 
pensable, and  such  a  relation  between  both,  that  the 
nervous  system  of  the  latter  is  neither  too  strong  nor  too 
weak,  but  of  the  exact  energy  required  to  excite  that  of 
the  former.  If  too  strong,  it  produces  cramps  and  pain  ; 
if  too  weak,  it  cannot  cause  any  effect.  When,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  believer  is  constantly  prepared  to  re- 
ceive stories  of  all  kinds  of  visions,  of  apparitions,  of  de- 
parted spirits,  and  even  of  journeys  into  other  worlds,  to 
what  else  can  this  predilection,  which  fears  critical  judg- 
ment lead  than  to  superstition?  Neither  of  these  two 
parties  takes  a  correct  position  in  reference  to  animal 

17 


^ 


.^^3^ 


ANTHROPOLOGY. 


.  ,   magnetism,  and  we  shall  have  to  deviate  from  botli-. 
■  "^  On  the  one  hand  it  will  become  candid  examiners  to 
^.  exercise  their  full  power  of  judgment,  as  one  of  the 
parties  does,  and  on  the  other,  to  admit  all  well-autheri- 
*^  ticated  facts,  as  the  other  does,  with  this  difference,  that 

■^*  we  distinguish  between  well-authenticated  facts,   and 

.  those  relations  that  are  the  fictions  of  an  imagination 

'   ^  -#:^ which  delights  in  the  supernatural  and  mystical. 
*^  #     "We  do  not  propose  to  give  a  full  theory  here  ; — this 

-   ^  would  be  presumptuous  and  out  of  place.     Nor  is  it  our 

design,  to  include  at  present  the  artificially  produced 
^^     magnetic  sleep  or  Mesmerism.     A  note  will  be  append- 
ed on  this  subject,  to  which  the  reader  is  referred.     We 
shall  therefore  confine  ourselves  to  the  natural  magnet- 
>^    V  ^ '^  ic  sleep,  which   was  in  existence  long  before  Mesmer 
-  -1^     discovered  it,  and  which,  if  somnambulism  is  taken  in  its 
•  *  <•       widest  sense,  may  be  called  Idio  or  Auto-somnamhu- 
9'  lism.     Much  that  has  been  said  on  presentiments  and 

visions,  must  necessarily  apply  to  magnetic  sleep,  for 
what  presentiments  are  in  our  state  of  waking,  the  phe- 
nomena of  magnetic  sleep  are  in  our  state  of  sleeping. 
These  phenomena  are  in  general  the  following  :  Per- 
sons speak,  act,  and  walk  about  in  their  sleep  ;  they  see 
themselves,  their  viscera,  anticipate  diseases,  have  pre- 
sentiments of  things  future  or  at  a;  distance,  and  fre-. 
quently  have  apparitions.  Their  moral  disposition 
seems  to  be  raised,  they  speak  a  purer  language  and  are 
in  general  elevated  above  their  common  character. 
The  phenomena  of  the  artificial  and  natural  magnetism 
are  nearly  the  same,  for  the  so-called  clairvoyance 
;.  is  peculiar  to  both  ;  but  there  are.  a  few  that  belong  ex- 

clusively to  the  former. — Such  are  the  eifects  of  mani- 
pulation, when  the  eyes  close,  the  pupil  turns  upward, 
pain  is  assuaged,  breathing  becomes  more  easy,  the  face 
brightens  up,  and  all  heaviness  departs  from  the  limbs. 
Again  :  the  dependence  of  the  magnetized  upon  the 
magnetizer  is  so  great,  that  it  has  been  compared  to 
that  of  the  embryo  upon  the  mother,  and  the  feelings 
and  ideas  of  the  magnetizer  are  said  to  communicate 
^  .  |l  themselves  to  the  magnetized,  who  if  the  magnetizer  is 
v.^  ^  physician,  will  prescribe  medicines  for  themselves  ac- 


"-4. 


«•■ 


^  ^  .  'anthropology.  131 

cording  to  his  system,  or  if  he  is  a  poet,  write  in  his        .   |^ 
style.     These  phenomena  will,  however,  be  spoken  of  in         *  *    ' 
a  note  ;  and  we  will  only  remark,  that  persons  in  natural 
somnambulism  likewise  prescribe  for  themselves,  and 
foresee  the  course  their  disease  is  likely  to  take.     A  few 
instances  of  magnetic  sleep  or  somnambulism  may  throw  ^ 

light  upon  its  nature  :     When  the  archbishop  of  Bor-        ^' 
deaux  was  in  the  Seminary,  he  knew  a  young  minister 
who  was  a  somnambulist.    In  order  to  become  acquaint-  . 

ed  with  this  singular  disease,  he  went  every  night  into  |j| 

his  room  as  soon  as  the  minister  was  asleep,  and  ob-  ^  ' 

served  among  the  rest  the  following  facts. — The  young 
man  arose,  took  paper  and  ink  and  wrote  sermons. 
Whenever  he  had  finished  a  page,  he  read  it  over  from 
the  top  down  to  the  bottom  with  a  loud  voice,  and  with- 
out making  use  of  his  eyes.  When  a  passage  did  not 
please  him,  he  would  erase  it  and  write  the  correction 
with  much  accuracy  above  it.  The  beginning  of  a 
sermon  pleased  the  bishop  much.  It  was  elaborate  and 
well-written.  In  order  to  ascertain,  whether  he  made 
use  of  his  eyes  or  not,  a  piece  of  pasteboard  was  placed 
under  his  chin,  so  that  he  could  not  see  the  paper  on 
which  he  wrote.  He  continued,  however,  to  write  with- 
out noticing  any  thing  which  the  bishop  did.  Again, 
in  order  to  ascertain  how  the  somnambulist  could  per- 
ceive the  presence  of  objects,  his  paper  was  exchanged 
for  another  of  a  different  size.  He  directly  discovered 
it,  while  a  paper  of  the  same  size  laid  in  the  place  of  his 
own,  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  him.  This  case  is  re- 
lated in  the  French  Encyclopedia.  From  another  re- 
markable case  it  appears,  that  somnambulism  is  not  con- 
fined to  the  night,  but  may  take  place  during  the  light  of 
day.     A  girl  of  fourteen  years  of  age  was  seized  by  som-  ^ 

nambulism  while  attending  divine  service.  She  rose 
and  went  home  with  her  eyes  closed  ;  afterwards  she 
was  found  half  undressed,  sitting  on  her  bed.  All  at- 
tempts to  awaken  her,  were  in  vain  ;  after  some  time 
she  went  to  a  table,  took  a  hymn  book,  sought  and  found 
the  hymn  which  had  been  sung  in  the  church,  and  with 
closed  eyes  she  continued  to  sing  where  she  had  stop- 
ped when  at  the  service.     The  same  girl  was  sent  by  ■ 


%     -^^.3 


m*. 


*?:# 

"B:^ 


132  '  ANTHROPOLOGY.  ,  , 

.  vJ?  a  minister,  in  whose  service  she  was,  to  a  Doctor  Muel- 
'  -^  "'  ler,  who  Hved  at  a  distance  of  about  three  miles.  She 
went  while  under  the  influence  of  sonnambulism.  The 
Doctor,  aware  of  her  disease,  ordered  something  for  her 
and  sent  her  to  his  apothecary.  There  she  waited  for 
the  medicine.  Having  received  it,  she  went  homeward 
'  while  still  asleep.  Doctor  Mueller  followed  her  for  more 
than  a  mile  and  a  half,  to  observe  her.  She  noticed 
every  impediment  in  the  path,  and  carefully  avoided 
wagons  and  persons.  When  she  awoke  and  noticed  the 
Doctor,  she  was  frightened,  and  knew  not  how  she  had 
4  come  there.  See  Cams  Junior,  in  his  Psychology,  and 
Nasse's  Archives.  This  last  mentioned  case  proves  that 
it  is  not  the  influence  of  the  moon  which  gives  somnam- 
bulists so  much  safety  in  climbing  roofs  of  houses,  and 
passing  through  dangerous  places.  The  feeling  of  per- 
fect safety,  to  anticipate  this  remark,  is  derived  from 
their  ignorance  of  the  danger  in  which  they  are.  A 
foot  requires  but  a  little  small  spot  to  stand  on  with  per- 
fect safety  ;  whether  this  spot  be  given  on  the  roof  of  a 
house  or  on  the  solid  ground,  is  a  matter  of  little  conse- 
quence to  somnambulists,  who  do  not  judge  while  they 
are  asleep.  As  soon  as  they  perceive  the  danger,  when 
suddenly  awakened,  they  fall  down  or  injure  them- 
selves. 

The  above  examples  might  be  sufficient,  were  we 
not  anxious  to  exhibit  the  strength  of  sympathy  and  an- 
tipathy in  the  state  of  somnambulism,  and  the  great  ex- 
citability of  the  nervous  system.  And  here  we  shall  al- 
lude to  a  woman  of  Prevorst  in  Wurtemberg,  whose 
case  has  lately  caused  much  sensation  in  Germany. 
Minerals  when  touched  by  somnambulists,  will  fre- 
quently produce  the  most  astonishing  eflfects  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  body.  It  is  remarkable,  that  these  ef- 
fects not  only  differ  widely  from  each  other  according 
to  the  different  minerals,  but  also  according  to  the  dif^ 
ferent  parts  of  the  body,  with  which  they  are  brought  in 
connection.  They  will  produce  convulsions,  cramps, 
lameness,  they  will  exhilarate  or  make  desponding. 
With  the  woman  of  Prevorst,  salt  putinto  her  hands  im- 
mediately caused  salivation,  copper,  colic   and  nausea. 


it 


» 


*•■ 


A     :      f    ■ 

ANTHROPOLOGY.  133 

Without  taking  it  into  her  mouth,  she  felt  the  acid  taste 
of  spar.  Crystal  laid  upon  her,  awoke  her  when 
asleep,  but  when  placed  upon  her  heart,  it  made  the 
whole  body  stiff.  Other  metals  made  her  laugh,  and 
others  again  cry.  It  is  certainly  worthy  of  our  notice 
and  may  aid  us  in  some  considerations  hereafter,  that 
she  seemed  to  feel  the  nature  of  these  metals,  as  if  she 
could  enter  into  them  by  feeling,  as  we  enter  into  the 
views  and  feelings  of  persons,  Very  hard  metals  uni- 
versally caused  her  muscles  to  grow  stiff  and  hard; 
soft  spar  produced  the  contrary  effect. 

Somnambulists,  as  has  been  seen,  speak,  act  and  walk, 
while  the  four  senses  of  the  head  are  asleep.  How  then 
IS  it  possible,  that  they  can  walk  or  write  or  act  7  How 
is  it  possible,  that  a  somnambulist,  with  closed  eyes  can 
run  faster  through  a  large,  dark  cellar,  than  other  per- 
sons, with  a  light  in  their  hands,  can  follow  her  ?  The 
following  theory,  accepted  by  many,  is  offered  to  the 
consideration  of  the  reader  : 

Here  we  must  remember,  what  has  been  said  on  the 
nature  of  sleep  and  dreaming  in  general,  that  the  life  of 
the  soul  is  merged  in  that  of  the  body,  and  rests  princi- 
pally in  the  ganglion  nervous  system.  This  now  is  so 
much  excited  in  jts  activity,  that  to  some  degree  it  may  be 
substituted  for  the  upper  senses.  The  sense  of  feeling 
as  spread  over  the  whole  skin,  is  the.  source  of  the  four 
senses  of  the  head,  as  may  easily  be  seen  from  compar- 
ative anatomy.  With  the  crab  for  instance,  the  ear  is 
nothing  else  than  a  skin,  softer  than  the  rest,  below 
which  lies  a  bag  filled  with  moisture  and  nerves.  The 
eye  of  flies  consists  only  of  a  thin  skin,  to  which  runs 
a  filament  of  a  nerve.  Oken,  in  his  Natural  History 
says  :  '•  at  the  sides  of  the  head  are  two  eyes,  composed 
of  many  single  ones,  which  have  a  great  many  surfaces 
— the  eyes  of  the  butterfly  have  seventeen  thousand. 
These  eyes  are  only  the  arched  and  thin  skin,  to  which 
extend  nerves,  that  lead  out  single  filaments  to  each 
surface."  With  snails  no  organ  of  sight  can  be  ob- 
served, and  yet  according  to  Oken  they  distinguish,  like 
some  maggots,  between  darkness  and  light.  Flies  have 
undoubtedly  a  good  scent,  and  yet  they  have  no  nose. 


134        '  '  *•' 

4f4  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

Some   have   therefore  thought   that  they  smell   with 
their  windpipes,  others  with  a  soft  place  behind  their 
lips,  and  others  with  their  feelers.     These  remarks  fully 
establish  the  truth,  that  our  common  way  of  perceiving  . 
M  things  is  not  the  only  one,  and  therefore  what  is  not 
analogous  to  it,  deserves  not  to  be  rejected  for  that  rea- 
son merely.     In  somnambulism,  feeling,  as  spread  over 
the  whole  body,  is  heightened  and  changed  into  a  ca- 
pacity oi  perceiving-.     The  mere  feehng  of  any  thing 
within  or  without  becomes  a  sensation  or  perception  ; 
^._    hence  somnambulists  see  their  own  viscera,  and  espe- 
^•'  cially  those  which  are  much  excited  during  the  state  of 
somnambulism.     The   power  of  perceiving  thus  pro- 
duced  will  be  strongest,  wherever  many  nerves  are 
concentrated,  as  on  the  cavity  of  the  heart  and  other 
parts  of  the  body.     The  nature  of  this  sensation,  is 
however  indistinct  and  confused,  since  it  is  only  by  the 
division  of  the  sensitive  power  into  five  distinct  senses, 
that  we  can  obtain  clear  and  transparent  ideas  of  things 
around  us.     Salt,  for  example,  is  white  to  the  eye,  sharp 
to   the  taste,   and  angular  to  the  touch ;    we  observe 
these  different  qualities,  by  bringing  one  after  the  other  in 
contact  with  our  different  senses.     When  all  the  senses 
are  merged  in  one,  that  is,  when  the  divided  activity  of 
sensation,  is  reduced  and  without  order  to  one  simple  ac- 
tivity,  the  impressions  received  from  objects  can  be  no- 
thing else  than  dark  and  confused.  It  would  therefore  be 
wrong  to  say  of  somnambulists,  that  they  see  and  hear, 
taste  and  smell,  but  like  snails  they  have  only  a  dim 
impression  of  light  and  darkness,  and  like  animals,  that 
have  no  regularly  formed  ears,  they  have  but  a  dull, 
dreamlike  sensation  of  sound.     With  this  view  of  the 
sensual  life  of  the  somnambulists,  it  may  safely  be  said 
that  the  general  sense,  which  develops  itself  from  feel- 
ing, takes  the  place  of  the  others,  as  does  feeling  in 
some  degree  that  of  sight  with  the  blind.     The  blind, 
though  by  mere  feeling    he  may  distinguish  between 
black  and  red,  can  get  no  idea  of  color  by  it.      So 
the  somnambulist  can  get  no  clear  idea  of  objects,  but 
only  perceives  their  presence  and  general  difference. 
When  Spallanzani  cut  out  the  eyes  of  bats  and  then 


^fif- 


anthropology;^^   ;  13$  r 

set  them  free,  he  observed  with  astonishment,  thnt  they 
avoided  every  obstacle  in  their  way.     How  could  they 
"  do  this  ?     Certainly  only  by  the  development  of  a  gen- 
'  eral  sense. 
"    We  ought  not  to  object  to  such  a  general  sense,  be-  ^% 
cause  we  cannot  conceive  of  its  nature  and  activity  ; — 
though  both  may  be  understood  from  the  general  na- 
ture of  sleep.     Such  an  objection  would  be  in  no  wise 
better,  than  if  the  bhnd  should  object  to  a  sense  like 
that  of  sight,  merely  because  all  our  explanations  will 
not  give  him  an  adequate  idea  of  it,  he  having  nothing 
analogous  to  it  in  his  experience. 

The  strength  of  sympathy  and  antipathy  may  now 
be  easily  explained.     When   we  have  the  full  use  of 
all  our  senses,  we  can  govern  the  impressions  made 
upon  us,  at  least  to  a  certain  extent.     We  may  exclude 
the  light  from  the  eye,  the  noise  from  the  ear.     But 
when  the  life  of  the  soul  is  sunk  into  that  of  the  body, 
and  has  resigned  its  dominion  for  a  time,  when  the  dis- 
tinctness of  sensation  is  gone,   and  when  instead  of 
many  senses,  but  a  general  sense  is  active,  then  we  are 
more  receptive,  more  passive,  more  under  the  dominion 
of  an   impression,  and  as  it  affects  us  pleasantly,  we 
either  sympathize  with  the  object  from  which  it  comes, 
or  feel  an  antipathy  to  it.     The  nature  of  feelinsf  always 
expresses  itself  directly,  without  reflection.     The  fact, 
that  somnambulists  frequently  prescribe  correct  medi- 
cines for  themselves  rests  on  the  feeling  of  disease, 
which  makes  them  seek  for  relief,  and  though  man  is 
not  under  the  dominion  of  instinct  in  somnambulism, 
something  analogous  to  it  makes  its  appearance.  Their 
sympathy  with  vegetables  known  to  them,  will  guide 
Ihem.     The  dog  when  sick  finds  an  herb  to  cure  him. 
The  disease  in  him  impels,  by  a  feeling  of  want  and 
pain,  to  seek  for  something  and  finding  the  herb,  he 
will  be  made  certain  by  the  impression  he  receives  from 
it  through  scent,  that  it  will  afford  what  his  diseased 
system  demands.     As  the  magnet  attracts  the  iron,  as 
the  negative  pole  attracts  the  positive,  so  a  relation  be- 
tween the  disease  and  the  natural  remedy  will  force  the 
dos:  to  seize  the  latter. 


r     .  :  ■        ■  '■*■ 

136         .  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

With  regard  to  perceptions  of  distant  objects  and  to 
presentiments,  we  refer  back  to  these  subjects  as  above. 
With  a  few  modifications  all  will  pertain  to  the  present, 
case.  We  only  add  an  extract  from  Goldsmith's  histo- 
ry, which  may  give  us  a  case  analogous  to  the  percep- 
tion of  distant  objects  in  animals.  Speaking  of  the 
pigeon,  which  is  called  the  carrier  pigeon,  he  says  : 
"the  letter  is  tied  under  the  bird's  wing,  and  it  is 
then  let  loose  to  return.  It  is  seen  on  such  occasions, 
flying  directly  into  the  clouds  to  amazing  height,  and 
then  with  the  greatest  certainty  and  exactness  directing 
itself  by  some  surprising  instinct  towards  home,  which 
lies  sometimes  at  many  miles  distance,  bringing  its  mes- 
sage to  those  to  whom  it  is  directed.  By  what  marks  it 
discovers  the  place,  by  what  chart  it  is  guided  in  the 
right  way,  is  to  us  utterly  unknown."  The  carrier 
pigeon  cannot  possibly  see  the  place  whither  it  is  to  go, 
and  yet  it  is  certain  of  it,  though  we  cannot  compre- 
hend how  it  became  so,  because  the  sense  by  which  it 
is  made  certain  of  it  is  wanting  to  us.  So  it  is  as  to 
somnambulists. 

THE  HEALTH  AND  THE  DISEASES  OF  MIND. 

Our  body  as  has  been  already  remarked  is  not  a  ma- 
chine, but  an  organism.  A  machine  is  externally  com- 
posed ;  its  parts  are  joined  in  each  other  by  a  power 
not  resting  in  it ;  the  idea  of  the  mind  producing  it,  is 
not  contained  in  it  but  in  the  mechanic,  and  precedes  it 
as  all  its  parts  exist,  before  it  is  finished  as  a  whole. 
This  external  composition,  in  which  one  part  is  con- 
nected with  the  other,  not  by  its  internal  nature  or  by 
one  life  pervading  all  the  parts,  but  by  mechanical  co- 
hesion renders  it  possible,  that  when  one  part  of  the 
machine  gets  out  of  order,  it  may  be  mended  or  another 
be  substituted  for  it.  With  the  body  this  is  different. 
Its  members  are  not  merely  parts,  but  organs ^  for  they 
are  alive  and  their  life  is  that  of  the  body,  as  the  life  of 
the  body  exists  only  in  them.  All  the  organs  together 
constitute  the  organism  ;  the  former  do  not  precede  the 
latter,  but  all  grow  forth  from  one  point  that  contains 


#• 


.  f 

IT 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  137 

them  according  as  possible.  In  such  an  organism  each 
organ  has  a  peculiar  position  and  importance  or  de- 
sign ;  both  position  and  design  are  given  it  by  the  gen- 
eral life  of  the  organism,  so  that  the  root  as  of  the  plant 
cannot  be  where  the  stem  is,  nor  the  stem  where  the 
flower,  and  so  that  the  stem  has  a  design  diiferent  from 
that  of  the  root.  But  it  is  one  life  that  unfolds  itself  in 
the  root,  stem,  and  flower  which  connects  them,  and 
which  is  the  same  in  every  one  of  them.  This  life 
they  have  to  manifest,  and  while  each  organ  is  active 
for  itself,  it  is  so  only  in  reference  to  the  whole,  from 
which  it  derives  existence  and  activity.  Thus  it  is  with 
our  body.  Each  nerve  is  connected  with  all  the  nerves. 
The  body  may  be  said  to  be  well^  only  when  all  its  or- 
gans are  harmoniously  active.  By  the  term  harmo- 
niously we  understand  that  there  are  different  or- 
gans, but  that  they  all  of  them  are  united  and  serve  one 
common  end.  In  health,  therefore,  no  organ  obtains  an 
ascendancy  over  all  the  others,  or  isolates  its  activity,  or 
absorbs  that  of  the  rest ;  when  however  any  organ  does 
become  active  without  reference  to  the  whole — ^^by  what 
cause  is  here  entirely  indifierent — then  the  body  is  dis- 
eased, the  organism  is  deranged. 

This  definition  of  bodily  disease  will  render  that  of 
mental  derangement  easily  understood.  The  mind  is 
pure  activity,  and  as  such  a  perfect  union.  But  this 
activity  takes  difierent  directions  and  unfolds  itself  in 
diflerent  methods,  and  thus  it  may  be  said  to  be  the 
union  of  manifold  activities,  all  of  which  are  internally 
united,  each  being  what  the  other  is,  and  all  serving  the 
same  whole,  yet  each  in  a  specific  manner.  When  these 
activities  harmonize,  that  is  when  each  in  its  place  ful- 
fills its  design,  and  no  one  interferes  with  the  other,  so 
that  while  many  and  difierent,  they  still  are  one  and 
united  in  their  tendency  to  serve  the  whole  to  which 
they  are  subordinate,  the  life  of  the  mind  may  be  said 
to  be  healthy.  Or  in  other  words  the  activities  of  the 
mind  are  many,  but  when  they  are  co-ordinate  to  each 
other  and  subordinate  to  the  mind  as  their  whole,  so 
that  all  are  equally  penetrated  and  governed  by  the 
whole  mind,  then  the  latter  is  well.     But  when  this  co- 

18 


% 


138  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

ordination  is  interrupted,  when  one  of  the  mental  activi- 
ties succeeds  in  gaining  the  exchisive  interest  of  the 
mind,  and  thus  by  an  increased  strength  absorbs  all  the 
others  or  suppresses  them,  then  the  mind  is  out  of  order. 
There  is  none  of  the  activities  wanting,  but  the  order 
in  which  each  ought  to  be  active  in  its  sphere  without 
interfering  with  the  other,  and  in  which  all  should  aid 
and  support  each  other  is  deranged.  When,  for  in- 
stance, the  imagination  is  active  without  or  independent 
of  judgment,  it  will  produce  phantoms  and  fantastical 
notions.  With  the  poet,  imagination  is  likewise  prin- 
cipally active,  but  it  is  at  the  same  time  aided  by  the 
fancy,  by  the  memory,  and  by  the  judgment.  The  lat- 
ter pervades  it,  for  a  poet  must  know  what  beauty  is,  and 
to  know  this  he  must  judge  much  and  constantly,  com- 
-pare  his  productions  with  the  laws  of  beauty  known  to 
him. 

Division  of  the  diseases  of  the  mind.     Some  have 
thought  proper,  to  divide  them  according  to  the  three 
principal  activities  that  may  be  diseased,  and  thus  have 
considered  melancholy  as  a  disease  of  feeling,  insanity 
;p  as  a  disease  of  the  understanding,  and  m,a7iia  as  a  dis- 

ease of  the  will.  Yet  the  activities  of  mind  so  relate  to 
each  other,  that  the  disease  of  one  will  affect  all  the 
others.  The  maniac  is  not  only  diseased  in  his  will, 
but  also  in  his  imagination  and  judgment,  for  how  can 
any  one  will  any  thing  without  a  knowledge  of  it  ? 
And  how  can  he  know  it  without  judgment  ?  Another 
principle  of  division  has  therefore  been  proposed,  one 
derived  from  the  relation  of  the  mentally  diseased  to  the 
objective  world  around  him.  This  principle  must  be 
correct,  if  it  is  right  to  say  that  derangement  in  gen- 
eral is  that  state  of  mind,  in  which  our  mental  activities 
being  out  of  order,  we  live  only  in  our  own  ideas  and 
notions,  in  the  fictions  of  our  brain,  and  substitute  them 
for  the  realities  and  relations  of  real  life  ;  in  which  con- 
sequently the  mind  by  supposing  its  fictions  to  be  true, 
comes  into  contradiction  with  the  world.  The  position 
which  the  derangement  of  mind  assumes,  may  be  a 
threefold  one : 

I,  Melancholy.  Here  the  deranged  on  the  one  hand 


-# 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  139 

is  fully  convinced,  that  his  notions  and  wishes  ought  to 
be  realized,  but  on  the  other  he  darkly  feels  the  impossi- 
bility of  effecting  this  realization.  He  therefore  makes 
no  effort  to  render  possible  the  impossible  ;  yet  he  can- 
not resign  the  ideal,  which  he  bears  in  his  bosom ;  he 
loves  his  fictions  or  the  objects  of  his  wishes  so  much 
that  he  cannot  part  with  them.  Thus  he  consumes 
his  existence  in  a  monotonous  grief;  he  cannot  take 
interest  in  any  thing,  except  the  object  of  his  sadness. 
A  young  girl  of  cultivated  mind  was  known  to  stand 
the  whole  day  mute  and  immovable,  with  her  head 
bent  down.  After  long  and  repeated  attempts  nothing 
was  drawn  from  her  except  a  nod  or  a  shake  of  the 
head.  When  she  was  asked  if  any  person  had  injured 
her,  she  shook  her  head.  When  asked  if  she  had  in- 
jured others,  she  nodded.  But  how?  no  one  could 
learn  from  her.  One  Monday  the  unfortunate  girl  at 
length  determined  to  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer.  When 
she  came  to  the  petition  ;  "Lead  us  not  into  temptation, 
but  deliver  us  from  evil,"  she  raised  her  voice  with  the 
strongest  emphasis,  and  some  time  afterwards  she  cried 
out  most  piteously :  "  Alas  1  the  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost."  Here  the  idea,  that  she  had  committed  the  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost,  was  viewed  by  the  girl  as  real, 
and  at  the  same  time,  she  desired  that  it  might  not  be, 
but  feeling  the  impossibility  of  undoing  what  she  suppo- 
sed she  had  done,  it  threw  her  into  the  state  in  which 
we  find  her. 

2.  Insanity.  In  this  state  the  deranged  has  lost  every 
idea  of  the  world  as  it  is  and  of  its  relation  to  him.  he 
feels  convinced  that  all  his  imaginations  are  real,  and  exist 
in  full  truth.  He  is  therefore  satisfied  and  cheerful,  and 
very  ingeniously  assimilates  the  whole  world  around 
him  to  that  of  his  dreams.  He  is  no  longer  sensible  of 
any  contradiction  of  his  phantoms  to  the  world.  If 
he  fancies  himself  a  king,  he  will  act  as  a  king  with 
the  most  logical  consequence.  So  the  Jesuit,  Father 
Sgambari  imagined,  that  he  had  been  created  a  Cardinal. 
To  convince  him,  that  this  flattering  fancy  was  an  error. 
Father  Provinzial,  in  the  hope  of  curing  him,  made  a 
friendly  representation  to  him.    He  answered  in  this 


'^ 


140  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

dilemma  :  "  You  either  consider  me  insane  or  not.  In 
the  latter  case  you  do  me  great  injustice,  in  speak- 
ing to  me  in  such  a  manner.  In  the  former  I  consider 
you  with  your  permission,  a  greater  lunatic  than  my- 
self, because  you  think  you  can  by  mere  persuasion 
bring  me  to  my  senses."  Aside  from  this  fancy,  his  un- 
derstanding was  sound,  and  disposed  to  scientific  in- 
vestigations. Whenever  students  addressed  him  with 
"Your  Eminence,"  he  was  social  and  communicative. 
As  the  body  is  often  partially  diseased,  but  otherwise 
well,  so  may  the  mind  be  partially  deranged.  Some- 
times persons  have  become  estranged  to  themselves, 
A  soldier  looked  on  his  body  as  a  miserable  ma- 
chine, made  to  replace  his  former  real  body,  that  had 
been  destroyed  by  a  cannon  ball.  Or  persons,  whose 
judgment  is  diseased,  and  whose  imagination  is  active 
without  restraint,  produce  all  kinds  of  images,  when 
they  feel  pain,  and  consider  them  as  the  cause  of  the 
pain.  Animals  bite  them  or  sting  them.  Tissot  relates 
the  case,  of  a  man,  that  became  deranged  from  constant 
study.  He  was  convinced,  that  seven  horsemen  were 
constantly  fighting  in  his  stomach. 

3.  Mania.  This  state  of  derangement  unites  in  some 
degree  the  two  former.  The  melancholy  Uian  con- 
scious of  the  impossibility  of  realizing  his  wishes,  dwells 
with  his  whole  mind  constantly  on  the  object  of  his  ex- 
clusive interest,  and  compares  it  with  the  reality  of  the 
world,  and  discovering  the  permanent  contradiction,  he 
has  an  ever-teeming  source  of  sadness  in  the  results  of 
this  comparison.  The  insane,  on  the  other  hand  is  deter- 
mined no  longer  to  acknowledge  the  world  around  him, 
as  it  is,  but  to  re-model  it  so  as  to  bring  it  in  harmony 
with  that  of  his  imagination.  The  maniac  like  the 
melancholy  man  feels,  that  what  he  takes  to  be  real,  is 
not  so,  but  that  the  opposite  of  it,  is ;  at  the  same  time 
he  has  the  tendency  of  the  insane,  to  realize  his  fictions, 
for  he  considers  them  to  be  true  and  correct.  This  re-  ' 
alization  cannot  be  easily  efiected  as  with  the  insane, 
for  the  maniac  feels  the  contradiction  of  his  fictions 
with  the  world  ;  he  therefore,  finding  the  world  in  his 
way,  turns  against  it  with  the  hope  that  by  its  destruc- 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  141 

tion  he  may  realize  the  purposes  of  his  diseased  will. 
He  rages  because  he  cannot  affect  what  he  designs,  nor 
can  he  resign  his  will.  He  is  like  the  passionate  man, 
that  kills  in  his  fury,  whoever  opposes  him.  His  whole 
mind  will  have  fixed  themselves  in  one  idea,  and  cannot 
retire  from  it,  because  they  have  given  it  dominion 
over  themselves.  Hence  the  immense  muscular  power 
in  the  fits  of  mania. 

All  the  diseases  of  the  mind  have  their  longer  or 
shorter  intermissions.  This  shows,  that  the  reason  ex- 
ists, and  is  only  deranged.  Many  insane  persons  are  so 
merely  with  regard  to  a  single  subject,  but  on  every 
other,  they  are  perfectly  sane.  Others  are  insane  only 
during  a  certain  period  of  the  year.  A  celebrated  phy- 
sician of  Venice  imagined  during  the  dog  days,  that  he 
was  an  earthen  jar,  and  locked  himself  up  for  a  whole 
month.  After  the  four  weeks  were  past,  he  came  down 
again,  and  went  as  usual  to  his  employment.  Every 
kind  of  derangement  according  to  the  statements  of  many 
physicians,  abates  in  old  age,  and  the  deranged  state  of 
mind  is  therefore  one,  that  will  pass  away  sooner  or 
later. 

The  above  division  of  mental  diseases  is  of  course  sus- 
ceptible of  many  subdivisions.  Insanity,  for  instance,  in- 
cludes imbeciliti/ of  mind  ^  weakness  of  the  understanding 
and  will  in  which  man  cannot  take  care  of  himself ;  inca- 
pacity  of  connecting  ideas  or  of  seizing  a  thought  and 
fixing  the  mind  on  a  single  idea  ;  idiocy  when  a  person 
is  active,  without  having  any  particular  object  in  view  ; 
lunacy,  when  the  insane  considers  himself  perfectly  ra- 
tional. Melancholy  comprises  hypochondria,  which 
tortures  man  by  making  him  constantly  brood  over  fu- 
ture or  present,  real  or  imaginary  evils.  Mania  applies 
to  those,  that  find  pleasure  in  abusing  others,  in  ridicu- 
ling them,  or  who  desire  to  destroy  others,  and  cunningly 
watch  for  a  proper  opportunity.  Our  division  will  be 
found  to  comprize  all  the  possible  relations,  which  the 
subjective  mind  may  in  its  state  of  derangement  assume 
to  the  objective  world  around.  At  the  same  time  it 
agrees  with  the  division  founded  by  others  on  the  prin- 
cipal activities  of  mind,  for  melancholy  seems  to  rest  on 


li?  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

deep  feeling  and  emotions ;  insanity  on  the  thinking 
activity  in  man,  and  mania  on  the  will. 

One  question  is  left  which  seems  to  be  of  great  im- 
portance. How  is  it  possible  that  the  mind,  a  pure- 
ly intellectual  activity  of  divine  origin,  can  become 
diseased  ?  It  would  seem  to  have  the  power  to  keep 
itself  free  from  every  thing  that  might  entangle  it.  But 
here  we  must  remark  in  the  first  place,  that  the  soul  is 
already  diseased  in  its  state  of  nature  ;  for  turned  away 
from  its  proper  objects,  truth  and  holiness,  and  the  love 
of  God,  it  is  sunk  in  sinfulness  and  vice,  and  instead 
of  deriving  its  food  and  nourishment  from  a  study  of 
the  good  and  noble,  it  seeks  for  it  in  the  sensual  and 
transitory.  But  that  which  nourishes  a  power  com- 
municates also  its  nature  to  it,  as  may  be  observed  in 
every  thing  living,  in  every  plant,  which  in  absorbing 
the  light,  becomes  colored,  and  in  receiving  the  air,  re- 
ceives fragance.  As  little  as  the  magnet  could  be  said 
to  be  in  its  vigor,  if  instead  of  pointing  towards  the  north, 
it  should  suffer  itself  to  be  attracted  in  other  directions,  so 
little  is  the  mind  healthy,  when  it  once  has  lost  its  only 
proper  direction,  but  it  must  be  said  to  be  in  error  and, 
in  a  dangerous  deviation  from  the  right  path.  To  ex- 
press these  remarks  moro  fully,  we  will  consider  for  a 
moment  the  nature  of  will.  The  will^  one  of  the  ac- 
tivities of  mind,  is  healthy,  when  by  its  own  power  it 
frejly  directs  itself  in  accordance  with  the  divine  will, 
so  that  it  agrees  with  it  both  externally,  as  to  the  action, 
and  internally  as  to  the  disposition.  When  on  the  other 
hand  it  does  not  so,  but  directs  itself  either  by  desires 
or  passions,  then  it  is  not  free,  but  under  the  dominion  of 
something  different  from  itself,  which  is  the  ground  of 
its  determination.  The  divine  law  is  the  divine  will.  It 
is  the  only  source  of  freedom,  and  it  alone  is  free ;  the 
human  will  directing  itself  by  it  or  by  the  divine  law, 
returns  to  the  source,  from  which  it  came,  becomes  filled 
with  its  nature,  and  consequently  free.  To  enter  on 
this  subject  fully  here,  would  lead  to  discussions,  that 
would  take  up  too  much  room.  One  idea  it  may  how- 
ever be  useful  to  mention  here,  an  idea,  according  to 
which  it  is  supposed,  that  our  will  is  free,  when  it  can 


4 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  r43 

choose  between  the  evil  and  the  good.  This  idea  is 
\yholly  erroneous,  and  instead  of  calling  such  a  will 
free,  it  would  be  better  to  call  it  arbitrary.  For  if  free- 
dom, like  every  thing  else  in  creation,  has  its  own  na- 
ture, and  if  without  it,  nothing  can  be  said  to  be  free, 
then  freedom  includes  the  necessity  of  acting  in  accord- 
ance with  its  own  nature,  or  else  it  destroys  itself.  This 
nature  is  contained  and  expressed  in  the  divine  law, 
which  as  the  divine  will  cannot  be  influenced  by  any 
thing  except  itself,  because  whatever  is,  is  created  by  it, 
and  dependent  upon  it.  The  human  will  can  be  free 
therefore  only,  when  it  receives  the  divine  will  as  its 
soul.  But  if  a  will  should  rather  choose  evil  and  sin, 
it  would  miss  what  it  seeks  for,  liberty,  and  become  the 
slave  of  sin  ;  for  sin  is  so  wholly  opposed  to  purity  of 
will,  that  it  destroys  its  freedom.  As  long  therefore  as 
a  will  is  capable  of  choosing  between  the  good  and  evil, 
between  heaven  and  hell,  between  the  source  of  its  life 
and  that  of  its  death,  so  long  this  will  is  not  free.  It 
would  no  doubt  at  once  be  considered  erroneous,  if  any 
one  should  assert  that  fire,  in  order  to  be  fire,  might 
choose  between  burning  and  not  burning,  or  that  water 
might  be  water,  whether  it  would  moisten  or  not ;  or 
that  light  might  be  light,  though  it  should  be  able  to 
choose  between  itself  and  darkness.  Every  one  will 
admit,  that  in  the  moment  light  chose  to  turn  into  dark- 
ness, it  would  lose  itself  and  cease  to  be  the  free  light. 
So  it  is  with  liberty.  It  must,  in  order  to  remain  what 
it  is,  always  preserve  its  own  nature,  and  this  nature  is, 
to  determine  itself  freely  by  its  own  activity,  and  not 
by  any  thing  different  from  itself  Liberty  is  therefore 
a  free  activity  that  is  not  arbitrary,  but  includes  neces- 
sity. But  the  human  will  in  its  state  of  nature  is  averse 
to  necessity  and  instead  of  perceiving  in  it  the  protector 
of  its  liberty,  it  views  it  as  its  enemy.  It  has  there- 
fore lost  its  liberty,  and  may  in  this  respect,  be  compared 
to  a  planet,  that  has  no  light  in  itwself,  but  must  receive 
it  from  the  sun,  around  which  it  revolves.  If  the  planet 
remains  in  its  path,  and  preserves  its  relation  to  the  sun, 
it  has  light,  and  whatever  grows  on  it  is  filled  with 
light,  and  grows  and  blooms  in  the  most  beautiful  colors. 


144      ,  anthropology; 

But  if  the  planet  at  any  time  should  choose  between  its 
regular  course  and  another,  and  really  pursue  one  lead- 
ing off  from  the  sun,  darkness  and  death  would  reign 
on  it  and  destroy  all  life.  The  sun  of  the  will  is  that  of 
righteousness  or  tlie  divine  will ;  it  alone  can  make  us 
free.  Rejecting  it,  we  reject  the  only  source  of  freedom 
and  become  mentally  diseased.  The  eye  of  man  has  a 
latent  light  in  itself,  but  this  light  is  darkness,  and  will 
remain  such  unless  it  be  excited  by  the  light  of  the  sun. 
Suppose  the  sight  to  be  the  freedom  of  the  eye,  the  eye 
can  be  said  to  be  free  only  when  turning  towards  the  light, 
but  not  when  diving  into  darkness.  So  the  will  is  free 
anly,  when  living  in  its  proper  elements,  in  the  good  and 
true,  in  the  beautiful  and  divine,  and  when  it  does  not 
suffer  any  attraction  or  power  to  separate  it  from  the  di- 
vine law. 

From  these  remarks  it  will  sufficiently  appear,  that 
the  will  in  its  state  of  nature  is  diseased.  It  is  not  di- 
rected towards  its  proper  object ;  nor  does  it  receive  its 
proper  nourishment ;  nor  is  it  pure  but  much  more  de- 
termined by  sensual  appetite  and  desires,  by  inclinations 
and  passions.  Every  passion  is  a  transient  derange- 
ment, and  the  only  difference  between  it  and  a  real  de- 
rangement is  this.  The  man  in  passion  may  be  so 
overpowered,  that  he,  as  for  instance  in  anger,  can  no  lon- 
ger control  himself ;  yet  he  enters  into  this  passion  ar- 
bitrarily, and  might  if  he  chose  avoid  it.  The  maniac, 
on  the  other  hand,  comes  under  the  influence  of  his  pas- 
sions, independent  of  his  will.  Some  maniacs  frequent- 
ly foresee  their  fits,  and  beg  that  they  may  be  chained 
lest  they  should  hurt  some  person.  With  this  view  his- 
tory agrees.  For  a  spirit  of  revenge  and  wrath  infuriat- 
ed those  heroes,  whose  insanity  is  mentioned  among 
the  first  that  have  become  known  historically  for  their 
derangement,  Hercules  and  Ajax.  Some  have  there- 
fore thought  that  a  mental  derangement  was  merely 
psychological,  and  always  caused  by  sinfulness.  This 
idea,  no  doubt  is  correct,  if  it  means  to  assert,  that  the 
body  itself  became  subject  to  diseases  only  by  the  fall 
of  man.     Certain  it  is,  however,  that  by  the  close  con- 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  145 

nection  of  the  body  with  the  soul,  the  former  has  fre- 
quently been  the  cause  of  the  diseases  of  the  latter. 

Passion,  as  haughtiness,  revenge,  wrath  ;  deep  emo- 
tions,  as  terror  and  fright ;  inclinations,  as  unfortunate 
love,  may  become  the  causes  of  derangement,  and  the 
works  of  Shakspeare  exhibit  the  most  interesting  ex- 
amples of  this  kind.  If  the  will  of  man  were  pure, 
these  powers  of  sin  could  not  affect  it.  If  man  had  faith 
in  God  and  loved  him  supremely,  if  he  confided  in  his 
providence,  then  he  would  not  become  the  prey  of  every 
passion,  nor  would  loss  and  misfortune  harm  him.  But 
placing  his  sinful  affections  wholly  on  "earthly  things, 
he  must  despair  when  they  are  taken  from  him,  or  when 
he  cannot  attain  to  the  objects  of  his  highest  wishes. 
He  lives  in  the  sphere  of  delusion  ;  how  easy  then  must 
it  be  for  the  demons  of  pride  and  wounded  ambition,  of 
unsatisfied  vanity  and  sore  jealousy  to  derange  a  mind 
that  has  no  hold  in  any  thing  which  is  permanent  and 
solid.  If  that  on  which  we  stand  constantly  turns  around 
with  us,  we  must  become  giddy.  Again,  the  constant 
use  of  one  and  the  same  mental  activity  may  so  awaken 
all  others,  that  a  derangement  will  be  the  consequence. 
This  is  the  case  with  such  as  have  become  insane  from 
the  study  of  mystical  books.  Or  the  whole  mind  of  a 
person  is  so  constantly  devoted  to  one  single  object,  it  be- 
comes absorbed  by  it  and  so  fixed  upon  it,  that  it  cannot 
keep  off  its  image.  So  Orestes  constantly  saw  the 
blood  gushing  from  the  wound  inflicted  on  his  mother 
by  his  own  hand.  So  when  Spinello  had  painted  Satan 
in  the  most  hideous  colors,  his  imagination  was  filled 
with  the  picture,  until  at  length  he  saw  Satan  con- 
stantly at  his  side,  reproaching  him  for  having  painted 
him  so  ugly.  And  what  else  than  the  silent  beginning 
of  derangement  was  it,  when  a  painter,  who  had  killed 
a  person,  afterwards  drew  a  picture  that  was  beautiful 
in  every  respect,  but  over  which  such  a  gloom  was 
spread,  that  no  person  could  look  upon  it  without  feel- 
ing an  awe  for  which  nothing  could  account,  except 
the  diseased  imagination  of  the  painter. 

As  derangement  is  caused  by  the  activity  of  the  mind 
itself,  so  again  the  activity  of  the  body  may  operate  on 

19 


146  ANTHROPOteGY. 

it  and  derange  it.  And  here  any  thing  that  destroys 
the  health  of  the  body,  will  more  or  less  affect  the  mind. 
Intoxication  is  in  itself  a  transient  derangement,  for  it 
causes  such  an  excitement  of  the  nerves,  that  they  with 
their  whole  activity  especially  that  which  principally  de- 
pends upon  them,  as  the  imagination,  withdraw  them- 
selves more  or  less,  from  the  dominion  of  the  mind  and 
act  independent  of  control  until  exhaustion  and  sleep  fol- 
lows. A  drunken  person  walked  at  night  through  a  street, 
beautifully  illuminated  by  the  moon  ;  and  thinking  it  was 
a  river,  undressed  himself  to  bathe  and  could  only  be  con- 
vinced of  his  mistake  by  the  hardness  of  the  stones. 
Another  in  falling  down  a  flight  of  stairs,  rose  calmly 
and  asked  a  friend  that  happened  to  be  with  him  with 
much  concern,  "  whether  he  had  hurt  himself  in  falling 
down  so  many  steps  T  He  could  not  be  persuaded  that 
it  was  himself  that  had  met  with  the  accident,  but  in- 
sisted on  his  friend's  having  fallen.  The  delirium  tre- 
mens, or  mania  potu  are  too  well  known  to  be  mentioned 
here.  In  America  and  Europe  more  than  one  third  of 
all  the  deranged  persons  become  so  from  the  use  of  li- 
quors ;  in  China,  on  the  other  hand,  from  that  of  opium. 
Poisonous  food  may  likewise  cause  delirium.  Two 
monks  ate  water  hemlock.  Both  immediately  felt  much 
thirst ;  both  plunged  into  water,  the  one  thinking  that 
he  was  a  goose,  and  the  other  that  he  was  a  duck,  and 
both  declaring  that  they  could  live  no  where  else  except 
in  the  water.  Tissot  knew  a  child  four  years  old  that 
raved  several  times  a  day.  He  ascribed  it  to  the  food 
which  it  had  received  from  its  nurse.  Want  of  sleep 
may  derange  the  activity  of  the  mind  as  well  as  too  long 
a  deprivation  of  food.  Ugolino  ate  in  his  delirium  his 
own  child.  The  idiocy  of  children  is  frequently  the 
consequence  of  the  sinful  life  of  parents. 

It  may  be  easily  understood,  how  bodily  sickness  may 
produce  mental  derangement.  Our  ideas,  our  whole 
thinking  depends  in  some  degree  on  our  nervous  sys- 
tem. Where  nerves  are,  there  is  feeling;  and  where 
feeling  is,  there  is  either  instinct  or  in  its  place  con- 
sciousness. Man  becomes  conscious  of  every  feeling 
produced  by  impressions  on  the  nerves,  and  when  the 


#: 


ANTHROPOLOGV.  147 

nerves  are  diseased,  the  feelings  must  be  so;  and  if  they 
are  unsound,  the  ideas  called  forth  by  them  must  become 
unfavorably  affected.  With  every  feeling  is  connected 
pleasure  or  pain,  and  with  the  latter  a  tendency  either 
to  indulge  the  pleasant,  or  to  remove  the  unpleasant 
feeling  by  action  and  activity.  Want  is  a  state  of  neces- 
sity, in  which  some  organ  of  our  body  finds  itself; 
when  this  state  of  the  organ  enters  the  nervous  system 
attached  to  it,  it  is  felt ;  of  this  feeling  we  become  con- 
scious, and  produce  in  accordance  with  it  certain  no- 
tions and  ideas.  While  we  therefore  must  agree  with 
those  physicians,  that  derive  many  mental  diseases  from 
organic  derangements,  we  must  at  the  same  time  deprecate 
the  idea  that  the  body  is  the  sole  source  of  mental  sick- 
ness. We  would  rather  repeat  it  as  our  conviction,  that 
the  mind,  if  it  were  directed  to  its  proper  object,  to  God 
and  a  Savior,  could  rule  over  its  body  as  well  as  over 
its  passions,  for  it  would  then  possess  purity  and  a  pow- 
er over  all  things  which  are  merely  earthly.  If  it  would 
keep  itself  aloof  from  them  and  be  ready  to  lay  down 
the  life  for  Christ's  sake,  it  could  not  be  absorbed  by  the 
care  for  health  or  bodily  defects.  Some  may  perhaps 
feel  inclined  to  reply,  that  mental  derangement  arises 
frequently  from  too  deep  a  religious  solicitude.  This 
may  be  true,  and  yet  it  will  not  affect  our  theory.  Good 
wine  will  become  spoiled  in  an  impure  vessel.  When 
a  man  will  not  surrender  his  life,  and  yet  longs  for  the 
privileges  of  religion,  when  he  will  not  give  up  his  sin 
and  yet  cannot  resio^n  the  possession  of  divine  favor,  and 
when  he  then  feels  the  contradiction  between  his  state 
of  sinfulness  and  that  of  desired  sanctification, — he  may 
easily  become  deranged,  not  through  religion,  but  by 
his  relation  to  it. 


148 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  MIND  OVER  THE  BODY. 

-:;  We  have  seen  that  the  mind  depends  greatly  on  ex- 
ternal influences  and  on  the  body  of  man,  and  yet  it  ex- 
ercises by  its  energy  a  control  and  dominion  over  the 
elements  around  it  and  also  over  the  body.  It  affects 
the  form,  the  health  and  vigor  of  the  latter,  and  leaves 
on  it  an  impression  of  its  strength  of  character  and  dis- 
position. To  direct  the  attention  to  this  power  of  the 
mind  over  the  body  is  the  object  of  the  present  chapter. 
1.  The  mind  has  an  influence  on  the  form  of  the 
body.  This  assertion  may  be  easily  established,  for  it 
is  too  well  known  how  a  fright  of  the  mother  during 
pregnancy,  or  the  sight  of  any  disagreeable  or  deformed 
person  affects  the  form  of  the  embryo.  The  deformity 
of  many  children,  the  deficiency  of  some  members,  the 
weakness  even  of  some  senses,  as  for  instance  of  the 
eye,  in  Albinos  must  be  traced  to  the  influence  of  which 
we  speak.  Howshipp,  an  English  physician,  relates  a 
remarkable  case  of  this  kind.  A  woman  in  the  state  oi 
pregnancy  was  frightened  ki  crossing  a  frozen  river ;  the 
ice  burst  and  cracked,  she  was  terrified,  and  when  de- 
livered of  a  child,  its  skin  was  rent  and  gaped  considera- 
bly in  many  places,  but  had  begun  to  heal  up.  The 
Lacedemonians  were  familiar  with  this  powerful  influ- 
ence, for  they  placed  the  beautiful  statues  of  Apollo, 
Hyacinth,  and  Narcissus  in  the  rooms  of  their  wives 
when  pregnant.  The  sight  of  an  epileptic  has  frequent- 
ly transferred  the  disease  to  the  embryo.  The  mind  of 
the  mother  has  its  influence  not  only  on  the  body,  but 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  149 

i 

also  on  the  disposition  of  the  child,  as  we  have  seen  in 
another  place.  The  Jesuits,  well  versed  in  the  subject  of 
education,  showed  therefore  much  sound  wisdom  in  al- 
ways ascertaining  the  character  of  the  mother  when 
they  received  a  new  pupil.  The  reason  of  this  influ- 
ence is  obvious.  The  life  of  the  mother  and  that  of  the 
embryo-child  is  one.  One  blood  circulates  in  both,  the 
same  nourishment  sustains  both,  and  the  feelings  of  the 
mother  are,  at  least  in  some  degree,  also  those  of  the 
embryo.  The  body  of  the  child  being  in  a  state  of  de- 
velopment, is  of  course  more  subject  to  the  reception  of 
so  powerful  impressions,  and  of  the  changes  produced 
by  them,  than  that  of  the  mother  which  is  already  form- 
ed. And  yet  we  may  see  similar  effects  of  the  power  of 
the  mind  on  the  body  of  adult  persons.  Vice  and  crimes 
seem  to  have  been  the  causes  of  great  deformities  of  the 
#.  heart.  Testa  found  the  heart  of  a  great  criminal  hard, 
;  /  hairy,  and  skinny;  and  Riolan  found  that  of  a  very  vi- 
»•  cious  man  gristly.  The  same  observation  has  often 
been  repeated. 

2.  The  mind  exercises  a  power  over  the  health  of  the 
body.  It  would  be  superfluous,  to  repeat  here,  that  cer- 
tain diseases  of  the  body  are  accompanied  by  weaken- 
ing emotions  of  the  mind,  as  anxiety,  despondency,  mel- 
ancholy, fear,  a  tendency  to  commit  suicide,  (fee.  Such 
diseases  are  those  of  the  liver,  obdurations  of  the  intes- 
tines. And  yet  other  diseases  have  a  cheering  eflfect 
on  the  mind,  as  for  instance  consumption,  diseases  of 
the  lungs,  <fec.  So  the  mind  in  its  turn  exercises  the 
most  powerful  influence  upon  the  health  of  the  body. 
Fear  relaxes  the  muscles  and  strips  the  whole  system 
of  energy,  and  exposes  it  to  the  attacks  of  a  fatal  mias- 
ma ;  on  the  other  hand,  a  strong  will  and  courage  keep 
otf  the  enemy.  We  will  here  allude  to  a  few  instances. 
When  in  the  orphan  house  of  Harlem,  a  boy  was  seized 
with  epilepsy,  all  those  in  whose  sight  this  occurred, 
were  so  terrified  that  the  disease  very  soon  spread 
through  the  whole  asylum.  The  celebrated  Boerhave 
knowing  the  cause  of  their  disease,  after  having  used  all 
other  means  in  vain,  had  instruments  brought,  such  as 
pincers,  hooks,  hammers,  <fec.,  had  them  placed  in.the  fire, 


150 


ANTHROPOLOGY. 


and  then  threatened  that  the  first  child  that  became  epi- 
leptic should  be  pinched  and  tortured  with  these  hot  in- 
struments.    The  children  fearing  this,  were  all  of  them 
delivered  from  this  dreadful    evil.      This    statement 
ao^rees  with  another  recorded  in  Schubert's  History  of 
the  Soul.     In  the  year  1800  the  fever  raged  awfully  in 
the  city  of  Cadiz.     Two  hundred  dead  persons  were 
daily  carried  out  of  the  city,  and  all  the  streets  were 
filled  with  the  smell  of  death.     All  ties  of  friendship  and 
sympathy  seemed  torn  asunder,  when  all  at  once  the 
powerful  fleet  of  the  English  appeared  before  the  city. 
The  citizens  forgot  the  pestilence,  and  instead  of  des- 
pairing and   committing    suicide,  they  collected   and 
fought  for  their  liberty.     From  that  moment  the  fever 
disappeared.     A  student  of  Boerhave  always  felt  the 
symptoms  of  every  disease,  on  which  this  great  physi- 
cian lectured.     Tissot  relates  two  cases,  in  which  one 
was   freed   by  violent  anger  from  the  gout,  and  ano- 
ther who  had  been  mute  for  four   years  received    his 
speech  again.     So  a  son  of  Croesus,  was  mute  from  his 
youth,  when  he  saw  a  soldier  threatening  to  kill  his 
father,  was  enabled  by  the  powerful  emotion  of  anger, 
with  a  loud  voice  to  speak  the  words,  "  Do  not  kill  Croe- 
sus !"     The  celebrated  Stahl  became  acquainted  with  a 
similar  fact  during  hi^  practice.     Lameness  has  frequent- 
ly been  healed  by  fright,  caused  by  fire  or  other  dangers. 
Hydrophobia  is  said  to  have  sometimes  originated  in 
groundless  fear.     The  power  which  the  mind  frequent- 
ly exercises  during  times  of  revivals,  is  known  from  the 
history  of  one  which  took  place  a  few  years  ago  in  the 
west  of  our  country.     Persons  walking  to  church  were 
seized  on  their  way  by  strange  feelings  and  fell  down. 
Similar  phenomena  were  perceived  at  Redruth,  in  the 
church  of  the  Methodists ;  the  upper  members  of  the 
body  trembled  and  were  convulsed,  and  the  muscles  of 
the  face  were  distorted.     See  Schubert's  History  of  the 
Soul,  p.   834 — 852.     These  examples  will  sufficiently 
show  the  power  of  the  mind  over  the  body.  The  question 
yet  left  is,  How  is  it  possible  that  the  mind  can  exercise 
such  a  power  on  the  body  ?     To  understand  this  possi- 
bility we  must  consider,  that  all  the  emotions  of  the 


If 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  151 

mind  have  each  its  peculiar  nerve  on  which  they  act. 
This  nerve,  becoming  thus  affected,  will  in  its  turn  af- 
fect all  those  immediately  connected  with  it.  If  the 
emotion  is  invigoratino^,  as  that  of  courage,  hilarity,  (fee, 
the  life  of  the  nervous  system  will  be  elevated  and 
strengthened;  if  the  emotion  is  of  a  weakening  charac- 
ter, as  fear,  sadness,  (fee,  the  nervous  system  will  become 
depressed.  The  nerves  pass  over  the  whole  body, 
and  every  organ  is  surrounded  by  them ;  hence  it  is, 
that  as  they  are  affected,  so  the  pulsation  of  the  heart, 
the  circulation  of  the  blood,  breathing,  digestion,  and 
even  the  voice  will  be  either  impeded  or  promoted  by 
emotions. 

An  example  or  two  will  serve  to  make  this  more  clear. 
When  we  are  under  the  influence  of  the  emotion  of  Joy, 
we  feel  our  pulse  beat  higher,  our  cheeks  redden,  breath- 
ing becomes  easy,  and  the  muscles  elastic.  A  fresh  and 
vigorous  life  is  spread  through  all  the  nerves;  the  eye 
sparkles,  and  digestion  is  accelerated.  And  all  these 
changes  in  our  system  proceed  from  the  nerve,  upon 
which  joy  principally  acts.  Joy  is  the  pleasant  feeling 
that  connects  itself  with  the  realization  of  a  hoped-for 
good  or  pleasure.  This  feeling  has  not  therefore  a 
physical  origin,  but  its  ground  is  the  idea  of  good,  which 
we  ctUticipate.  When  this  anticipated  good  presents  it- 
self to  us,  the  feeling  of  pleasure  excites  first  our  cere- 
bral system,  and  thence  it  sends  its  rays  of  life  into  all 
parts  of  the  body. 

So  again  anger  has  the  most  powerful  effect  on 
the  body,  healing  diseases,  as  we  have  seen,  by  rousing 
violently  the  slumbering  life,  or  more  frequently  produ- 
cing diseases.  Anger  is  an  emotion,  in  which  a  strong 
feeling  of  displeasure  arouses  the  desire  and  an  expect- 
ation of  destroying  the  cause  of  this  displeasure,  or  of 
causing  a  similar  unpleasant  feeling  in  him  who  is  the  of- 
fender. This  is  at  once  perceptible  in  the  external  ap- 
pearance. For  all  the  muscles,  subject  to  the  will,  are 
in  motion.  The  eye  rolls  about ;  the  face  is  distorted  ; 
the  teeth  are  grated  ;  the  voice  roars  or  trembles ;  the 
fist  is  clenched.  Our  organism  forms  a  whole,  and 
every  local  excitement,  if  strong  enough,  will  communi- 


152  *    ANTHROPOLOGY. 

cate  itself  to  all  parts  of  the  body.  The  agitation  of  the 
muscles  and  iierves,  immediately  subservient  to  will, 
will  be  propagated  upon  the  ganglion  nerves,  and  from 
them  upon  those  that  entwuie  themselves  around  the 
viscera.  Hence  the  secretion  of  bile  will  become  more 
copious ;  the  circulation  of  the  blood  will  be  more  rapid, 
and  warmth  will  be  quickly  developed.  And  here  we 
may  remark,  that  the  secretions  do  not  only  become  more 
copious,  but  are  essentially  changed  in  their  quality. 
The  saliva,  for  instance,  becomes  poisonous  in  a  high 
degree,  the  milk  of  nurses  causes  cramps,  convulsions, 
and  colic  in  children  nourished  by  it.  A  person,  biting 
in  his  wrath  another,  may  cause  his  death  by  the  intro- 
duction of  the  venomous  saliva  into  his  blood.  This 
also  may  be  easily  explained.  For  the  saliva,  accord- 
ing to  Oken,  has  the  office  to  kill  the  life  of  all  the  sub- 
stances we  eat  and  assimilate ;  strictly  speaking,  all  saliva 
is  poisonous,  and  even  that  of  birds  has  been  fatal  to 
persons.  When  now  the  hostile  nature  of  anger  com- 
municates itself  to  the  whole  body,  and  consequently 
also  to  the  saliva  of  the  glands  of  the  mouth,  it  will  not 
only  excite  to  a  higher  degree  its  poisonous  nature,  but 
positively  impregnate  it  with  its  own  fury.  In  the  same 
manner  the  foam  of  a  mad  dog  becomes  poisonous,  and 
also  the  saliva  of  many  furious  animals. 

It  would  be  easy  to  show  the  effects  of  other  emotions 
upon  the  body,  as  for  instance,  of  fright,  which  some- 
times deprives  us  of  our  senses,  causes  us  to  swoon, 
makes  the  voice  tremble,  and  takes  away  all  self-posses- 
sion. But  the  above  examples  will  suffice.  One  remark, 
however,  we  will  here  add  lest  we  should  be  misunder- 
stood.— On  the  one  hand,  one  and  the  same  organ  may 
be  affected  by  different  emotions,  as  for  example,  the  liver 
by  fear,  fright,  discontentment;  and  on  the  other,  the 
same  emotions  do  not  always  produce  the  same  ef- 
fects, for  while  the  feeling  of  shame  makes  some  blush, 
it  will  cause  the  faces  of  others  to  grow  pale  ;  and  while  _ 
wrath  affects  the  liver  of  one,  it  will  derange  the  di- 
gestion of  another,  and  promote  the  appetite  of  a  third. 
Therefore  the  idea  of  Plato,  which  was  before  enter- 
tained by  Homer,  that  each  emotion  and  passion  had  a 


ANTriROPOLOGY.  l53 

particulat  organ  as  its  seat,  as  courage  the  breast  and 
lungs — thus  in  Homer  a  strong  and  loud  voice  is  a  sign 
of  strength — wrath  the  liver,  must  be  accepted  with  much 
caution.  This  much  however  may  be  seen  from  the 
above  remarks,  that  a  general  excitement  of  the  blood 
and  nerves  may  become  beneficial  to  an  existing  dis- 
ease, as  well  as  dangerous  to  an  otherwise  healthy  sys- 
tem. 

3.  Tlie  power  of  the  mind  over  the  body  may  be 
seen  from  ihQ  formation  of  habits.  Habit  is  the  regu- 
lar return  of  actions,  that  by  frequent  repetition  have 
lost  all  feeling  of  strangeness.  Nerves  and  muscles 
have  their  natural  position,  and  the  feeling  connected 
with  it  is  simple.  When  a  new  action  demands  a  change 
of  this  position,  a  new  feeling  will  connect  itself  with  it, 
and  this  new  feeling  will  interfere  with  the  former  sim- 
ple feeling,  until  a  frequent  repetition  of  the  same  action 
makes  the  blood,  nerves,  and  muscles  run  repeatedly 
through  the  same  position,  and  thus  makes  them  famil- 
iar with  it.  Then  the  feeling  of  strangeness  will  also 
disappear,  and  what  before  attracted  our  attention  by  its 
novelty  will  be  no  longer  noticed.  Though  the  action, 
to  which  we  have  thus  accustomed  ourselves  by  fre- 
quent repetitions  has  lost  the  feeling  of  strangeness,  it  is 
still  felt,  but  we  no  longer  distinguish  between  the  feeling 
connected  with  it  and  that  of  our  existence.  Thus  we- 
may  accustom  ourselves  to  the  influence  of  the  weather, 
to  storm  and  rain,  to  cold  and  heat ;  and  even  to  the  en- 
durance of  misery,  diseases,  and  misfortunes.  An  un- 
fortunate occurrence,  when  visiting  us  for  the  first 
time,  may  appear  extremely  hard,  and  almost  threaten 
to  destroy  our  life  ;  if  the  same  occurrence  should  take 
place  the  second  time,  its  novel  impression  would  be  weak 
ened  and  so  on,  until  its  effects  on  us  would  be  trifling. 
The  fable  of  the  hare,  that  was  much  frightened  at  the 
first  sight  of  the  lion,  but  gradually  grew  so  familiar  with 
him  as  to  accost  him,  contains  therefore  a  full  and  im- 
portant truth. 

Habit  leads  to  skill,  and  skill  renders  the  most  diflicult 
labor  easy.  The  arm  which  constantly  hammers  on 
the   anvil,  will   no  longer  feel  the  fatigue,  which  at 

20 


154    '  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

first  was  caused  by  a  few  strokes.  The  fingers  of  a 
performer  on  the  piano  become  so  familiar  with  every 
key,  that  they  miss  none,  though  the  performer  has  his 
eyes  constantly  directed  to  the  notes,  and  not  to  the 
keys.  It  is,  to  speak  with  Leibnitz,  as  if  the  monads  of 
A  the  fingers  were  set  free,  and  no  longer  subordinate  to 

A  the  monad  of  the  soul,  they  act  for  themselves.     Yet 

the  mind  of  the  performer  has  nevertheless  to  watch 
them,  for  as  soon  as  he  thinks  of  something  else,  the 
fingers  will  miss  the  keys. — Skill  renders  work  easy 
by  reducing  the  effort  at  first  required,  to  a  very  small 
amount. 

Habits  may  be  formed  with  design  or  involuntarily. 
Examples,  education,  inclination  and  passion,  lead  to  in- 
voluntary customs,  while  those  willed  by  us,  are  acquired 
by  our  own  determination,  and  because  we  find  them  use- 
ful and  good.  When  a  habit  is  once  formed,  we  be- 
come attached  to  it,  for  it  becomes  natural  to  us,  and 
will  and  nature  are  united  in  it.  Hence  it  is,  that  ha- 
bits become  periodical,  and  when  the  hour  of  a  certain 
action  arriA^es,  an  excitement  is  felt  in  the  muscles  and 
nerves,  which  can  only  be  allayed  by  the  performance 
of  the  action.  The  power  of  habit  is  therefore  great ; 
it  frequently  keeps  us  bound  as  its  slaves  and  prevents 
us  from  receiving  a  better,  merely  because  it  is  strange 
and  new  to  us.  The  question  may  therefore  be  asked, 
whether  we  ought  to  submit  to  this  power  ?  Custom 
in  general  is  beneficial  to  man,  provided  it  is  morally 
correct  and  good.  For  being  itself  good  and  reigning 
with  regularity  over  the  life  of  man,  it  will  pervade  and 
ennoble  it ;  it  will  rescue  it  from  the  sphere  of  mere 
arbitrariness,  where  every  new  desire  invites  to  a  new 
action  ;  if  habits,  which  are  good  in  themselves  extend 
over  whole  nations,  they  will  unite  individuals,  break 
the  strength  of  selfishness,  lead  them  to  submit  to  high- 
er authority,  and  render  them  social  and  communica- 
tive. If  habits  are  not  good,  or  morally  correct,  our 
moral  feeling  ought  to  exclude  them  from  us,  and  if  we 
have  formed  them,  our  will  ought  to  remove  them  again. 
However  great  may  be  the  power  of  habit,  that  of  our 
will  is  still  greater,  and  to  exercise  the  latter,  it  would 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  .  155 

be  well  from  time  to  time,  to  free  ourselves  from  certain 
indifferent  habits,  merely  to  prove  to  ourselves,  that  we 
can  do  this  thing,  if  we  are  resolute  and  determined. 

4.  The  power  of  mind  over  the  body  is  perceived  in 
the  art  of  re  pres  editing  the  emotions  and  thoughts  of  the 
mind  by  the  motions  of  the  body.  Tliis  power  exhibits 
itself  in  the  control  man  has  over  his  voice.  He  can 
modulate  it  according  to  any  feeling  or  ideas  contained 
in  words  or  works.  The  character  of  a  piece  will  de- 
termine the  key  of  voice,  so  that  every  tone  and  semi- 
tone will  be  guided  by  it.  Every  emotion  of  the  heart 
has  a  tone  to  express  it  ;  in  fear,  the  voice  is  trembhng 
and  low  ;  in  joy,  clear  and  full  ;  in  anger,  loud  and 
roaring.  Each  kind  of  poetry  has  its  tone,  the  lyric, 
dramatic  and  epic,  each  is  to  be  declaimed  in  a  ditferent 
key  of  voice.  The  oratory  of  the  bar  or  the  pulpit,  de- 
mand each  a  different  tone.  So  again  the  arsis  and 
thesis^  or  raising  and  sinking  of  the  voice,  and  the  ac- 
cent and  emphasis  are  all  wholly  under  the  control  of 
the  mind,  and  he  who  thinks  well,  will  generally  speak 
well,  as  he  who  understands  well,  will  generally  read 
well,  for  what  is  felt  and  understood,  will  enter  into  the 
voice. 

Gesticulation  aids  very  essentially  the  understanding 
of  words,  and  frequently  where  words  would  not  be 
sufficient  to  fully  express  a  feeling,  a  single  glance  or 
a  single  gesture  will  be  sufficient.  So  Octavio,  at  the 
close  of  Schiller's  Wallenstein,  says  more  by  a  glance 
towards  heaven,  than  a  whole  speech  would  have  com- 
municated. The  expressions  of  certain  feelings  by 
gestures  are  at  first  involuntary.  The  hair  rises  when 
we  are  frightened  ;  the  face  grows  pale,  when  we  fear. 
This  natural  expression  becomes  artificial,  when  it  is 
produced  by  our  will,  and  from  a  consciousness  of  its 
appropriateness  to  convey  an  idea  of  our  feelings  and 
emotions.  To  know  this  appropriateness,  we  must 
know  the  reason  why  certain  motions  of  the  body  are 
expressive  of  certain  emotions  of  the  mind  ;  henc.e 
this  art  has  its  science,  and  has  been  treated  by  several 
writers. 

It  subjects  the  whole  body  to  its  designs.     The  walk 


.'^. 


156  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

and  the  motion  of  the  hands,  the  posttire  and  keeping 
of  the  whole  frame  are  all  used.  But  especially  the 
face,  the  head  and  the  hands  : 

The  face  has  to  serve  it  by  its  expression;  by  the  curling 
of  the  lips,  by  the  rolling  or  fixing  of  the  eye,  by  the  draw- 
ing in  of  the  nose,  by  the  wrinkling  of  the  forehead,  (fee. 

The  head  aifirms  by  nodding,  and  denies  by  shaking, 
in  the  former  case  it  moves  towards  the  object,  in  the 
latter  away  from  it.  Bending  gently  down,  it  may  in- 
dicate humility,  as  in  prayer  or  shame  and  confusion, 
or  modesty.  Looking  up  towards  heaven,  it  may  ac- 
knoft^ledge  our  dependence  on  a  higher  Being,  and  ask 
for  its  blessing  or  for  its  curse. 

The  hand,  when  clenched,  threatens,  when  stretched 
forth  and  open,  it  salutes  ;  when  one  of  its  fingers  is 
directed  toward  something,  it  points  out  or  commands  ; 
when  folded  it  indicates  that  as  the  hands  are  clasped  to- 
gether and  turned  inwardly,  and  for  a  time  give  up 
their  accustomed  activity,  so  the  mind  is  collecting 
itself,  to  direct  its  devotion  to  heaven,  abstaining  from 
earthly  thoughts.  The  hand  moving  away  from  the 
body,  gives  a  sign,  not  to  approach  ;  moving  toward 
the  body,  it  invites  to  come.  The  hands  clasped  in 
marriage,  unites  two  persons  into  one ;  striking  hands, 
confirms  a  bargain. 

Other  parts  of  the  body  may  serve  in  a  similar  way, 
to  express  the  feelings  or  thoughts  of  the  mind,  as  for 
instance,  shrugging  the  shoulders,  and  the  like. 

When  one  part  of  the  body  is  not  sufficient,  several 
are  used  at  one  time.  Shaking  the  head  may  be  united 
with  a  repellent  motion  of  the  hand.  The  hand  will 
here  principally  assist  the  head,  especially  when  signs 
for  intellectual  emotions  are  to  be  given.  The  hand 
covering  the  eyes,  closes  up  the  fountain  of  observation, 
and  shows,^  that  we  either  meditate  on  some  subject  or 
are  given  to  spiritual  devotion.  Laying  a  finger  on  the 
nose,  invites  attention,  for  as  the  nose  is  thus  divided, 
so  the  judgment  is  accurately  to  divide,  but  the  judg- 
ment cannot  be  without  attention.  Rubbing  behind 
the  ear  has  reference  to  the  understanding,  for  the  ear 


ANTHROPOLOGY.  157 

is  the  most  theoretical  sense.  Putting  the  hand  upon 
the  heart,  confirms  what  we  have  said. 

It  will  easily  be  seen,  that  the  meaning  of  these 
signs  or  gestures  does  not  depend  merely  on  the  mo- 
tions of  the  hand,  but  on  the  parts  of  the  body,  touched 
by  them.  The  nearer  they  are  connected  with  the  in- 
tellectual activity  of  the  mind,  the  more  noble  will 
be  the  signification  of  the  gestures  ;  the  more  these 
parts  are  connected  with  the  system  of  reproduction,  the 
less  noble  the  meaning  of  the  gestures  concerning  them. 

In  conclusion  the  whole  body  may  be  used  by  the 
mind,  as  bowing  to  express  its  respect,  kneeling  its  en- 
tire homage,  a  straight  and  unbending  posture  its 
haughtiness. 

5.  The  power  of  the  mind  over  the  body  leaves  its 
traces  and  impressions  on  theface^  on  the  forms  of  its 
single  parts,  as  nose,  lips,  eye,  forehead.  A  well-torm- 
ed  head  indicates  strength  and  fullness  of  understand- 
ins: ;  a  head,  thick  and  fleshy,  stupidity  ;  a  head,  small 
and  thin,  weakness  of  mind.  If  the  face  is  too  long 
or  too  round,  it  betrays  a  low  disposition.  Thus  in 
Shakspeare's  Cleopatra. 

Cleopatra.  Bear'st  thou  her  face  in  mind  ?     Is  it  long 

or  round  ? 
Messenger.  Round  even  to  faultiness. 
Cleopatra.  For  the  most  part  too  they  are  foolish, 
that  are  so.  ' 

The  chin  and  the  lower  jaw  have  reference  to  the 
sensual  disposition  of  man.  The  upper  lips  together 
with  the  nose  and  eyebrows,  and  including  the  eye 
and  the  ear,  refer  to  feeling  and  humor,  and  to  theoreti- 
cal knowledge  ;  the  rest  of  the  face  up  to  the  hair,  to 
mind  in  general .  "  The  forehead  is  the  portal  of  under- 
standing, the  seat  of  thought ;  raised  eye-brows  indicate 
wrath,  eyebrows  hanging  down,  dark  and  cheerless 
emotions.  The  eye  is  the  mirror  of  the  soul."  To 
judge  of  the  disposition  of  a  person,  the  proportions  of 
the  three  regions,  into  which  the  face  is  divided,  must  be 
carefully  examined,  while  every  organ,  as  the  nose,  the 
eye,  the  mouth,  forms  also  a  whole  by  itself.     The 


X58         .  '     ANTHROPOLOGY. 

roughness  or  smoothness  of  the  hair,  its  color,  and  that 
of  the  eye  and  of  theskin,  declare  to  the  physiognomist 
the  temperament  of  a  person. 

There  is  certainly  much  truth  in  physiognomy,  if  ^ 
.confined  within  its  proper  limits,  but  if  it^spires  to  the 
character  of  a  science,  or  if  it  assumes  a  judgment  over 
the  mor«Z  character  of  man,  it  becomes  insipid.  "  When 
Zopyrus  perceived  in  the  face  of  Socrates  that  he  was 
naturally  inclined  to  voluptuousness,  why  did  he  not - 
read  in  tlie  same  face,  that  he  had  a  power  too,  which 
was  strong  enough  to  correct  this  natural  tendency  ?  If 
this  tendency  deserved  to  appear  in  the  head  of  a  Faun, 
that  power  was  worthy  of  being  honored  with  the  head 
of  ^  Jupiter."  When  Porta  in  his  attempts  at  physiog- 
nomy went  so  far  as  to  compare  the  faces  of  animals 
with  those  of  man,  he  made  two  mistakes.  He  suppo- 
sed that  animals  had  really  a  physiognomy  ;  but  if  we 
call  physiognomy  the  external  expression  of  the  inter- 
nal and  invisible  mind  or  disposition,  then  animals  ha- 
ving no  mind,  cannot  be  said  to  have  a  physiognomy. 
And  if  they  had,  their  faces  are  grown  over  with  hair, 
and  thus  their  expression  is  concealed  from  the  ob- 
serving eye.  We  cannot  speak  of  a  physiognomy  of 
animals  because  all  animals  of  the  same  species  have 
the  same  expression  if  they  have  any,  and  whoever 
has  seen  one  lion,  has  seen  all,  and  in  describing  the 
face  of  one,  he  describes  the  faces  of  all.  So  it  must 
be  admitted  too,  that  children,  when  born,  have  no  ex- 
pression in  their  faces,  as  persons  when  they  die,  gener- 
rally  lose  those  they  had  in  their  lifetime.  Savages 
have  a  physiognomy  but  little  variegated,  while  physi- 
ognomy will  vary  in  proportion  as  nations  become 
cultivated.  This  shows,  that  the  expression  of  the 
face  depends  on  the  moral  character  of  man,  and  not 
the  latter  on  the  former.  Who  can  say  by  w  hat  a  wrink- 
le on  the  forehead  is  caused,  whether  by  care  or  dissi- 
pation ?  Many  a  one  may  have  had  the  nose  of  Shak- 
speare,  without  having  had  his  humor,  and  no  doubt 
the  whole  face  of  Shakspeare  has  had  in  some  age  or 
other  its  like,  while  in  no  climate  and  in  no  age  has 
Shakspeare  yet  been  equaled.     The  same  causes  do  not 


-f 


ANTHROPOLOGY,  159 

produce  the  same  effects,  because  man  does  not  suffer 
causes  to  act  as  such,  but  controls  them.  "  Green  wood, 
when  placed  near  the  fire  gets  warped,  dry  wood  only- 
brown."  Two  men  of  equal  strength  and  age,  may  spend 
the  whole  night  in  dissipation,  and  after  all  not  have 
the  same  appearance  in  the  morning.  How  much 
more  must^  this  be  the  case  in  the  sphere  of  liberty, 
where  we  by  our  mere  will  may  bid  detiance  to  every 
line  in  our  face.  In  London,  Macklin,  the  actor,  of 
whose  face  Giuin  said  :  "  If  this  man  is  not  a  rascal, 
God  does  not  write  a  legible  hand,"  received  in  the  year 
1775  public  praise  on  account  of  his  honesty  and  no- 
bleness. One  and  the  same  organ — and  this  may  be 
said  with  regard  to  phrenology  no  less  than  with  regard 
to  physiognomy — may  serve  two  very  different  purpos- 
es. The  nose  for  instance  is  the  organ  of  smell  and 
for  conducting  off  the  mucus  ;  the  tongue  of  taste  and 
of  language. 

6.  The  power  of  the  mind  over  the  body  is  indicated 
too  by  the  formation  of  the  skull,  which  must  bear 
witness  Of  the  life  of  the  mind.  The  observation  of 
this  fact  has  likewise  given  rise  to  the  idea  of  forming 
a  science,  called  Phrenology.  The  manner  of  reason- 
ing is  this : — Every  activity  of  the  mind  seems  to  de- 
mand a  particular  organ.  It  is  not  the  eye  that  sees, 
nor  the  ear  that  hears,  but  mind  sees  and  hears  by  the 
eye  and  ear.  But  the  mind  could  not  see  without  the 
eye,  nor  hear  without  the  ear.  The  eye  is  the  organ  of 
sight  as  is  the  ear  that  of  hearing.  It  is  reasonable  to 
expect  that  this  should  be  so  with  every  other  activity 
of  the  mind.  Again  it  is  not  the  organ,  but  the  nerves 
in  it,  that  are  active,  and  to  know  the  amount  of  activi- 
ty, of  which  the  organ  is  susceptible,  we  must  observe 
the  nerves,  embodied  in  it.  Yet  they  cannot  be  laid 
bare  during  the  hfe  of  man,  and  all  we  can  do  is  to 
judge  of  their  volume  and  strength  by  the  elevations  or 
indentations  of  the  skull  and  their  proportions  to  each 
other.  For  all  the  nerves,  in  whatever  direction  they  may 
run  over  the  body,  will  finally  concentrate  in  the  brain, 
and  as  the  skull  surrounds  it,  and  conceals  it  from  our 


160  ANTHROPOLOGY. 

sight,  the  skull  only,  its  formation,  its  depressions  or 
elevations,  are  left  for  our  examination. 

It  has  been  fashionable  of  late,  either  to  decry  phre- 
nology or  to  raise  it  above  all  other  sciences.  We^  on 
our  part,  have  to  acknowledge  that  talents  and  capaci- 
ties will,  to  a  certain  degree,  be  indicated  by  the'  forma- 
tion of  the  skull,.  Character,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the 
eifect  of  will,  and  not  of  the  nervous  muscles.  Nor  can 
phrenology  much  aid  our  science,  for  to  understand  any 
elevation  on  the  skull,  we  must  know  the  psychologi- 
cal activity  symbolically  indicated  by  it.  The  want 
of  a  good  psychology  in  Gall  and  Spurzheim  misled 
them,  and  their  errors  are  exposed  in  a  masterly  man- 
ner with  all  due  acknowledgment  of  their  merits  by 
Professor  C.  Hartman,  in  his  Geist  des  Menschen, 
from  page  255  to  291.  Cams,  in  the  second  part  of  his 
Psychology,  and  Hegel  in  his  Phenomenology  have 
likewise  spoken  against  the  extravagancies  of  phrenolo* 

The  internal  and  invisible  mind,  expressing  itself 
physiognomically  and  on  the  skull  of  man,  will  be  the 
subject  of  our  investigations  hereafter.  We  shall  view- 
it  not  as  a  compound  of  many  mental  activities  that  ex- 
ist by  the  side  of  each  other  in  one  common  receptacle, 
and  that  are  externally  united,  we  cannot  say  hoio?  but 
as  a  whole  of  many  branches,  all  of  which  proceed  from 
one  identical  life  and  are  held  together  by  it. 


PAKT    II. 

PSYCHOLOGY.* 


*  By  mistake  Self-Consciousness  has  been  printed  as  the  heading  of 
the  page,  from  page  163  to  224  inclusive  ;  as  also  for  the  title  on  page 
163,  instead  of  Psychology,  as  it  should  have  been. 


163 


PART  II 


SELF -CONSCIOUSNESS. 


In  every  science  we  may  discover  one  point  which  is 
the  center  of  the  whole,  and  which,  well  understood, 
will  shed  light  upon  every  portion  of  its  whole  extent. 
In  the  system  of  divinity,  it  is  the  idea  of  revelation  ;  in 
moral  philosophy,  it  is  that  of  law  in  connection  with 
that  of  conscience  ;  and  in  mental  philosophy  it  is  that 
of  self-consciousness.  Without  self-consciousness  we 
can  know  nothinsf  clearly,  either  within  ourselves  or  in 
nature.  It  is  the  light,  by  which  alone  we  can  see  in  the 
sphere  of  knowledge  ;  before  it  is  fully  developed  in  the 
child,  all  his  ideas  must  be  confused,  and  nothing  can 
be  known  in  relation  to  other  things,  nothing  be  classi- 
fied or  arranged,  but  every  object  will  appear  to  him 
without  distinction  in  itself,  and  without  a  g^eneric  dif- 
ference from  that  which  is  not  itself.  When,  in  an 
adult,  self-consciousness  disappears  for  a  moment,  all 
consciousness  of  the  things  around  us  and  of  our  per- 
sonal qualities  sinks  into  transient  oblivion,  and  we  no 
longer  notice  what  is  going  on  around  us,  though  we 
continue  to  hear  and  to  feel.  Self-consciousness  then, 
is  the  root  of  all  our  knowledge ;  it  must  accompany 
our  mental  activities,  and  without  it  it  would  be  in  vain 
to  investigate  the  nature  of  the  soul.  For  this  reason  it 
ought  to  be  examined,  before  we  approach  the  activity 


164  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

and  nature  of  the  sonl,  and  for  this  reason  also  it  de- 
serves a  full  share  of  our  attention. 

What  then  are  we  to  understand  by  self-consciousness? 
It  is  not  a  thin^  that  is  ready  wrought  in  us,  and  the  qual- 
ities of  which,  like  those  of  minerals,  chimical  substances, 
one  has  only  to  analyze  in  order  to  know  ;  but  it  is  an 
activity  that  constantly  produces  itself.  The  activities 
of  mind,  however,  are  manifold,  and  it  will  here  be  ne- 
cessary and  instructive  to  distinguish  it  from  them.  The 
first  of  all  the  activities  of  the  mind  is  feeling.  It  is 
the  most  subjective,  the  most  internal  and  inexpressible 
in  man.  Yet  difficult  as  it  may  be,  to  convey  a  clear 
idea  of  it,  we  cannot  pass  it  over  in  silence.  "  Feelings 
in  general^  is  passion  called  forth  hy  its  oion  activity. ^\ 
This  definition  demands  some  explanation.  The  pas- 
sion spoken  of  here,  is  one  conditioned  by  its  own  ac- 
tivity: Hence  it  follows  as  a  first  rule,  that  that  which 
cannot  affect  itself  cannot  feel.  The  ball  on  the  bil- 
liard table,  for  example,  is  set  in  motion  by  the  billiard- 
stick  ;  it  is  active,  but  not  of  its  own  accord.  Touch- 
ing another  ball,  it  communicates  its  motion  to  it,  and 
is  put  at  rest  by  the  resistance  it  meets  with,  and  conse- 
quently is  affected  ;  but  this  affection  or  passion  is  not 
ptoduced  by  its  activity,  but  by  the  resistance  of  another 
ball.  Every  metal  expands  by  heat,  and  contracts  by 
cold ;  but  this  activity  in  the  metal  is  elicited  by  an  ac- 
tivity without ;  the  metal  is  affected,  but  not  by  itself. 
Hence  though  warmed  by  the  heat,  it  neither  feels 
warmth  nor  cold. 

A  second  rule  is,  that  nothing  can  feel  which  affects 
itself  or  acts  tipon  itself  but  not  for  itself  A  ma- 
chine acts  upon  and  affects  itself,  but  not  for  itself. 
The  plant,  on  the  other  hand,  that  stands  in  the  sun 
moves  its  twigs  and  leaves;  its  juices  rise  and  sink,  it 
is  active,  and  both  affects  itself  and  acts  for  itself.  This 
appears  clearly  from  the  fact  that  after  a  hot  moon,  it 
re-creates  itself  in  the  dew  of  the  evening;  and  that 
from  the  germ  to  the  blossom  and  seed,  it  grows  only 
for  itself  and  not  for  any  thing  else,  for  it  will  grow 
whether  an  animal  is  near  to  eat  it  or  not.  But  this  activi- 
ty of  the  plant  is  wholly  called  forth  and  conditioned  by 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  165 

something  different  from  itself,  by  heat,  rain,  atmos- 
phere, (fee.     We  therefore  add  a  third  rule  : 

When  an  activity  which  conditions  itself  as  passive^ 
is  not  conditioned  hy  a  third  and  foreign  activity^  as 
that  of  the  nerve,  then  we  have  feeling.  Feeling  is  an 
activity  that  affects  itself;  affecting  itself,  it  is  active  ; 
being  affected,  it  is  passive;  activity  and  passiofi  in 
one  is^  feeling.  Such  an  activity  may  be  called  a  "  trem- 
bling in  itself  ^^  This  motion  is  not  like  that  of  the 
planet  turning  on  its  axis  ;  nor  like  that  of  the  plant 
turning  spirally,  nor  like  that  of  the  string,  which 
touched  moves  away  from  itself,  but  it  is  an  inward  mo- 
tion, one  in  itself  Such  is  the  motion  of  the  nerve 
when  touched  ;  the  life  of  the  nerve  seems  by  its  own 
energy  to  touch  itself,  the  parts  of  the  nerve  to  tremble 
in  themselves. 

Feeling  pre-supposes  one  who  feels  and  something 
which  is  felt.  Is  the  thing  felt,  different  from  him  that 
feels  ?  then  the  feeling  is  called  a  sensation.  The  light 
of  the  sun  is  felt  by  the  eye,  the  acid  of  thegfrape  by  the 
tongue,  both  feelings  are  sensations.  But  when  feeling 
does  not  depend  on  the  senses,  when  the  object  felt  is  also 
the  subject  that  feels,  then  we  have  what  may  be  called 
selffeelifig. 

This  self-feeling,  like  feeling  in  general,  is  enjoyed  by 
the  animal,  but  consciousness  is  not.  It  may,  therefore, 
be  proper  to  point  out  the  difference  between  them.  By 
self-feeling  every  individual  is  related  to  itself,  and 
throuH"h  it  is  certain  of  its  existence.  The  plant  can- 
not feel  itself,  and  consequently  could  not  support  it- 
self, had  it  not  stuck  its  roots  into  the  soil.  But  the 
animal,  feeling  itself,  feeJs  its  wants  and  satisfies  them, 
and  can  move  from  place  to  place.  It  feels  itself 
in  its  members  and  feels  them  as  its  own.  It  feels  itself 
when  it  stretches  them  in  the  warm  light  of  the  sun,  or 
in  its  dreams.  By  self-feeling,  therefore,  the  animal  is 
an  individual  ;  not  only  externally,  that  is,  not  merely 
like  the  plant,  externally  separated  from  other  things, 
but  interfially  by  feeling  itself  and  taking  interest  in  it- 
self. A  plant  when  torn  into  pieces' offers  no  resistance, 
but  an  animal  about  to  be  slain,  either  rages  or  looks 


166  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

piteously  at  him  who  destroys  it.  Arid  so  again  feeling 
itself  it  cannot  exchange  its  existence  for  that  of  anoth- 
er. The  "elephant  which  was  intended  to  frighten 
Fabius,"  and  that,  which  is  exhibited  in  a  menagerie, 
take  each  such  an  interest  in  itself  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  them  to  be  other  than  itself  In 
proportion  as  the  animal  takes  an  interest  in  itself,  it  op- 
poses every  other  animal  of  which  it  receives  a  feeling 
by  sensation.  The  stronger  the  self-feeling,  the  greater 
will  be  the  opposition,  the  more  determined  the  separa- 
tion from  all  other  animals,  and  consequently  the  more 
complete  the  isolation.  Rapacious  animals  love  to  be 
alone  in  their  caves,  on  high  rocks  or  in  ambush.  They 
live  together,  the  old  with  the  young  only  during  cer- 
tain seasons,  and  separate  again  as  soon  as  the  instinct- 
ive care  for  the  race  becomes  unnecessary.  It  is  true 
there  are  animals  that  seem  to  be  social ;  the  sheep,  the 
goose,  the  ant,  the  bee  ;  but  all  of  them  are  held  to- 
gether by  instinct,  by  the  pasture  on  which  they  graze, 
by  the  hive  or  cell  which  they  build  in  dommon.  And 
even  then  they  take  little  notice  of  each  other,  it  is  only  in 
times  of  danger  that  the  voice,  or  some  other  sign,  which 
is  the  same  in  all  the  individuals  of  the  same  class,  calls 
them  together  for  mutual  defence.  When  the  danger  is 
past  each  lives  again  by  itself. 

However  much  self-feeling  may  seem  to  resemble 
self-consciousness,  it  differs  widely  from  it  in  the  fol- 
lowing points  : 

1.  Self-feeling  does  not  enable  the  animal  to  distin- 
gush  between  the  subject  that  feels  and  the  object  that 
is  felt.  The  difference  exists  but  is  not  known  to  mere 
feeling.  The  animal  feeling  itself,  does  not  judge  that 
it  feels,  and  again,  that  it  is  itself  the  object  of  its  feel- 
ing- 

2.  The  animal  having  self-feeling  does  not  distin- 
guish between  itself  and  its  members  ;  it  feels  its  mem- 
bers, but  carmot  make  a  distinction  between  itself  as  the 
whole,  and  them  as  its  parts  or  organs.  Just  as  little  can 
it  distinguish  between  a  sensation  and  its  organ,  the  ob- 
ject of  the  sensation  and  itself  which  has  the  organ,  and 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  167 

through  it  the  sensation.  The  difference  is  there  ;  but  it 
is  not  distinct  and  clear,  it  is  only  felt,  not  known. 

3.  The  animal  having  self-feeling,  does  not  distin- 
guish between  itself  and  its  race,  so  that  it  would  refer 
itself  to  its  class,  but  it  isolates  itself  by  its  self-feeling. 
Every  animal  capable  of  feeling  itself  belongs  to  a  class 
of  animals  ;  the  pigeon,  the  hare,  the  dog  and  the  lion; 
all  are  individuals  of  a  certain  kind,  and  the  instinct  of 
each  class  directs  all  its  individuals  to  the  same  modes 
of  life,  (fcc.  Self-feeling  gives  them  the  same  degree  of 
energy,  the  same  kind  of  sensations,  so  that  for  example 
all  moles  differ  from  all  eagles  in  the  same  way  as^  re- 
gards sight.  But  while  the  kind  is  distinctly  expressed 
in  all  its  individuals,  no  one  of  them  refers  itself  to  its 
class,  but  they  are  all  of  them,  even  when  gregarious, 
only  single  among  many.  Self-feeling  chains  a  being 
to  itself,  makes  it  not  only  a  self  but  selfish.  However 
different  the  degrees  of  energy  may  be  in  the  self-feeling 
of  the  different  classes  of  animals,  each  animal  is  by  it 
a  single  isolated  being  ;  selfish  even  when  it  exhibits  a 
tendency  to  association,  for  no  sooner  do  we  offer  food 
to  sheep,  for  instance,  than  one  runs  to  outdo  the 
other  and  all  fight,  each  to  get  what  it  desires.  Want, 
necessity,  instinct  may  hold  them  too^ether,  but  they  are 
not  conscious  of  these  facts.  To  define  then  self-con- 
sciousness it  is, 

First.  That  activity  of  mind,  by  which  man  distin- 
guishes between  his  body  and  soul,  and  while  thus  dis- 
tinguishing between  them,  refers  the  one  to  the  other, 
and  comprehends  both  united  in  one.  It  is  consequent- 
ly an  act  of  judgment,  a  power  that  perceives  distinc- 
tions as  they  are  and  makes  them.  In  a  machine  all 
the  parts  are  likewise  distinct,  they  are  related  to  and 
connected  with  each  other,  but  by  a  power  not  in  the 
machine.  The  parts  of  the  plant  are  distinguished,  the 
roots  from  the  trunk,  the  twigs  from  the  leaves ;  they 
are  related  to  each  other,  and  systematically  connected. 
The  power  that  produces  these  distinctions,  that  which  in 
developing  itself,  causes  part  to  shoot  forth  from  part, 
and  as  their  common  soul  keeps  them  united,  is  contained 
in  the  plant,  it  is  the  plastic  power,  but  it  neither  feels 


168  .   SELF  CONSCIOUSNESS, 

itself,  nor  is  aware  of  its  productions.  The  animal  feels 
its  different  parts,  its  liver  and  stomach— its  senses,  and 
feeling  them  it  feels  itself  in  every  one  of  them ;  but  it 
has  no  consciousness  of  them  nor  of  itself,  it  does  not 
perceive  its  members  as  its  own,  for  it  neither  distin- 
guishes between  itself  and  other  objects,  nor  between 
its  organs  and  itself  Self-consciousness  makes  us 
clearly  aware  of  these  distinctions  and  their  union. 

Secondly.  Self-consciousness  is  the  activity  of  mind, 
that  distinguishes  between  man  and  his  senses,  and  by 
which  man  has  it  in  his  power  to  use  them  for  what- 
ever purpose  he  chooses,  for  making  observations,  ex- 
periments, &c.  And  as  it  distinguishes  between  the 
senses  and  their  possessor,  so  it  distinguishes  between 
the  sensations  and  the  senses,  between  the  objects  and 
the  sensations  produced  by  them. 

Thirdly.  It  not  only  observes  things  in  nature,  but 
recognizes  their  relation  to  each  other.  But  the  prin- 
cipal relation  is  that  of  the  individual  to  its  genus. — It 
therefore  recognizes  the  genus  in  every  individual,  and 
thus  suffers  nothing  to  enter  it  as  an  isolated  being. 
When  I  ask,  What  is  this?  I  desire  to  know  its  general 
nature.  If  I  am  told  that  it  is  a  sheep,  I  feel  satisfied,  for 
the  name  sheep  is  not  a  proper,  but  a  general  name,  ex- 
pressing a  certain  and  definite  class  of  animals,  conse- 
quently the  general  nature  as  it  exists  in  the  individuals 
belonging  to  that  class.  Self-consciousness  compre- 
hends therefore  the  general  in  the  individual,  and  the 
individual  in  the  general.  Nothing  in  nature  is  wholly 
isolated,  but  every  thing  is  connected  one  with  another, 
this  with  a  third  and  all  with  the  whole. 

This  relation  self-consciousness  perceives  and  ac- 
knowledges.     \.:  \.  • 

MUTUAL  RELATION  OF  BODY  AND  SOUL. 

Before  speaking  of  Personality,  we  shall  attempt  to 
gain  some  idea  of  the  connection  between  the  soul  and 
body,  as  it  will  aid  us  much  in  forming  a  correct  notion 
of  what  we  are  to  understand  by  the  term  person. 

The  views  entertained  concerning  the  relation  of  the 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  169 

soul  to  the  body  are  quite  various,  but  may  be  divided 
into  two  classes,  the  one  comprising  those  who  admit  of 
two  different  substances,  the  other,  those  that  either 
consider  the  soul  as  the  efflorescence  and  result  of  the 
body,  or  the  body,  as  built  by  the  soul.  The  former 
keeps  soul  and  body  so  separate,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
say  how  they  can  act  in  unison.  According  to  it  the  body 
has  a  life  of  its  own,  and  the  soul  likewise  ;  both  are 
however  intended  for  each  other,  and  the  former  re- 
ceives the  latter,  as  the  engine  the  steam.  Or  to  express 
this  difference  still  more  strongly,  the  soul  and  body  are 
connected,  as  Plato  represents  it,  like  two  horses  yoked 
together,  one  born  of  earth  and  sensual  in  its  nature, 
the  other  of  heavenly  origin  and  spirit :— one  prone  to 
the  earth,  the  other  rising  towards  heaven,  and  their 
owner,  incapable  of  controlling  them,  hanging  between 
heaven  and  earth,  unable  to  reach  the  onC;  and  unwilling 
to  descend  to  the  other.  A  dualism  that  admits  of  two 
principles  for  one  being,  offers  many  difficulties,  and  the 
greatest  is,  ,that  it  cannot  tell  how  the  principles  can  be 
united  in  a  third.  A  river  may  originate  in  two  foun- 
tains, but  a  science  cannot,  and  much  less  individual 
life. — The  latter  class  of  theories  represents  the  soul 
as  the  final  result  and  efflorescence  of  a  continual- 
ly refined  life  of  the  nerves,  so  that  reason  and  will  are 
nothing  but  the  organic  life  of  matter,  which  by  a  re- 
fined process  attains  the  power  of  thinking  and  willing,— 
here  a  soul  becomes  superfluous,  and  Materialism  in  its 
rudest  form  prevails, — or  it  takes  the  soul  for  the  origi- 
nal activity,  and  considers  the  body  as  huilt  by  it. 
This  is  the  theory  of  Stahl,  Treviranus,  and  others. 
As  the  caterpillar  spins  and  weaves  a  texture  fitted  for 
its  future  metamorphosis,  so  the  soul,  like  a  mason, 
builds  its  own  tabernacle.  The  first  of  these  opinions 
is  too  gross,  and  the  last  spiritualizes  the  whole  exist- 
ence of  man  too  much.  We  cannot,  however,  enter  into 
a  scientific  refutation  of  the  theories  alluded  to,  and 
must  be  satisfied  with  advancing  one  that  seems  to  be 
nearer  to  truth.  Yet  we  would  not  assert  that  it  is  not 
open  to  objections. 
Before  it  is  possible  to  come  to  any  conclusion  on 
22 


170  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

this  difficult  and  yet  exceedingly  interesting  subject,  we 
must  clearly  define  what  we  understand  by  body.  For 
as- the  English  language  not  only  calls  our  organism  a 
body,  but  speaks  also  of  the  sun,  moon  and  stars,  as 
heavenly  bodies^  it  is  evident  that  the  term  in  question 
is  not  used  in  the  same  unchangeable  sense.  Other 
languages,  as  the  Greek  and  German,  make  a  careful 
distinction  between  dead  and  living  bodies,  the  German 
calling  the  former  Koerper,  corpora,  and  the  latter  Leib, 
from  Leben,  life. 

The  general  idea  connected  with  the  term  body  is 
that  of  an  external  frame  animated  by  life.  According 
tp  this  view  the  body  and  soul  are  wholly  different,  and 
as  opposite  to  each  other  as  life  and  death.  Yet  this 
view  must  be  erroneous,  as  it  not  only  brings  the  soul 
and  body  in  opposition,  but  also  the  bodily  life  and  the 
external  frame.  The  body  as  an  external  frame  has 
been  ascertained  by  chimists  to  consist  of  nine  differ- 
ent substances,  gases,  earths,  metals  and  salt.  It  is 
therefore  dust  and  must  return  to  dust.  No  man  would 
be  willing  to  assert  that  man  consists  of  a  soul,  bodily 
life,  and  nine  different  kinds  of  earthly  substances  ;  but 
all  would  be  ready  to  acknowledge  that  earth  is  by  no 
means  an  essential  part  of  man.  This  must  appear  the 
more  true,  when  we  consider,  that  this  external  frame 
of  man  "  never  ceases  to  perish,"  but  is  constantly  un- 
dergoing changes,  that  it  is  in  an  unceasing  flow.  It  is 
like  a  foaming  place  in  a  smoothly  flowing  river  ;  one 
viewing  it  from  a  distance  might  suppose  the  foam  to  be 
unchangeably  the  same;  but  on  examining  more  close- 
ly, he  will  discover  that  the  water  thus  foaming,  is  in  an 
uninterrupted  flow,  changing  its  drops  so  constantly, 
that  they  are  not  the  same  for  a  moment,  and  that  only 
the  rock  which  breaks  the  water,  remains  the  same. 
Thus  it  is  with  the  body.  The  gases  constantly  escape 
and  all  the  particles  undergo  incessant  changes.  Hence 
the  necessity  of  renovating  our  bodies.  This  renova- 
tion demands  new  elements,  which  originally  foreign  to 
4he  body,  must  be  assimilated  and  rendered  subservient 
to  its  organism.  If  then  the  particles  of  the  external 
frame  are  incessantly  changing,  they  cannot  be  the  body 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNteSS.  171 

itself,  since  new  elements  are  every  moment  received  and 
old  ones  excluded,  and  all  of  them  are  but  dust.  The  true 
and  genuine  body  must  be  that  which  retains  and  pre- 
serves its  organical  identity  in  all  these  changes,  which 
remains  the  same  in  the  never-ceasino^  stream  of  matter. 
But  what  is  this  organical  identity  ?  The  life  or  power, 
which  connects  the  ^ases,  earths,  metals  and  salt  into 
one  whole,  which  penetrating  them,  keeps  them  together, 
or  dismisses  some  and  attracts  others.  No  sooner  does 
this  penetrating  power  retire,  than  the  body  becomes  a 
corpse,  and  the  elements  fall  asunder.  This  power  is 
the  true  body  ;  it  is  invisible,  but  connecting  the  ele- 
ments according  to  an  eternal  and  divine  law,  it  becomes 
mfinifest  by  its  productions. 

We  seem  to  have  gained,  then,  this  one  idea,  that  the 
external  frame  is  not  the  body,  and  that  it  is  not  to  be 
opposed  to  the  soul,  but  that  the  life  and  power,  which 
connects  the  elements  is  the  body  :  Again,  that  it  is  the 
connection  of  the  elements  that  is  human  and  not  the 
substances  themselves,  and  finally,  that  tliese  substances 
and  elements  do  not  remain  the  same,  but  are  constantly 
passing  away  while  new  ones  are  taking  their  place. 
That  which  is  permanent  in  these  changes,  and  com- 
bines the  elements  in  this  manner,  is  life.  The  idea  of 
life  is  therefore  to  be  next  considered.  Though  we 
gave  its  characteristics  in  the  Introduction,  and  must 
refer  to  them,  it  may  not  be  superfluous  to  view  it  here 
under  a  different  aspect.  All  life  wherever  it  exists  is 
formed  and  organized.  Form  is  not  and  cannot  be  the 
result  of  matter,  which  itself  is  chaotic  and  shapeless. 

Form,  in  man,  and  throughout  the  Universe,  is  the 
result  of  thought.  Hence  life,  being  formed,  does  not 
proceed  from  matter  ;  but  is  a  thought  of  God,  accom- 
panied by  the  divine  will,  to  be  realized  in  nature,  and 
to  appear  externally  by  an  organized  body.  As  the 
thought  gives  the  form,  so  the  divine  will,  resting  in  the 
thought  and  inseparably  united  with  it,  works  as  power 
and  law  in  all  nature.  Is  there  not  every  where  reason 
and  wisdom,  and  an  eternal  and  unchangeable  law 
manifested  in  all  the  productions  we  see?  The  plant 
before  me,  is  it  not  the  product  of  an  intelligence ;  or 


"    173  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

does  it  not  represent  a  thought,  that  by  the  divine  will 
/became  not  only  external  and  corporealized,but  received 
also  the  power  to  propagate  itself?  The  animal  with 
its  members  and  senses, — what  else  can  it  be  but  a  divine 
thought  exhibited  in  an  external  form  ?  All  nature  is 
full  of  divine  wisdom  and  reason,  but  it  does  not  pos- 
sess reason,  for  it  is  neither  conscious  of  itself  nor  of 
any  thing  else.  Hence  we  should  hesitate  to  speak  of  a 
soul  in  animals,  for  as  gravity  is  not  a  mere  quality  of 
matter,  but  as  matter  would  be  wholly  annihilated 
without  it,  so  the  soul  has  thinking  not  merely  as  one  of 
its  qualities,  but  cannot  be  conceived  of  without  it.  The 
soul  of  man  and  the  life  of  the  animal  are  therefore 
wholly  different.  In  applying  this  to  man,  to  the  union 
of  soul  and  body,  we  may  say — The  soul  of  man  is 
likewise  a  divine  thought,  a  creation  of  God,  filled  with 
power  to  live  an  existence  of  its  own.  But  it  is  soul^  for 
.  it  comprehends  itself  and  all  that  is  ;  and  not  only  does 
it  comprehend  itself,  but  it  is  also  able  to  produce  new 
thoughts  in  accordance  with  its  laws  of  thinking. 
Again,  it  develops  itself  like  all  other  life  in  nature ; 
and  develops  itself  in  a  twofold  direction  ;  outwardly 
and  inwardly.  There  can  be  nothing  merely  internal, 
but  it  must  be  so  only  in  reference  to  itself  as  external. 
The  fiesh  of  the  apple  is  internal  only  in  reference  to 
its  skin,  which  is  external.  The  internal  or  thinking 
life  of  the  soul  has  its  external,  and  this  the  sensitive 
life  of  the  body,  by  which  the  soul  is  connected  with . 
the  world.  The  life  of  the  soul  and  the  body  is  there- 
fore one  in  its  origin ;  a  twofold  expression  of  the  same 
energy.  The  particles  of  the  body  on  the  other  hand, 
are  not  at  all  a  part  of  man  ;  they  are  dust,  and  only 
their  connection  and  the  Zi/e  connecting  them,  is  truly 
human.  Flesh,  in  so  far  as  it  is  merely  earth,  cannot 
feel ;  but  in  so  far  as  this  earth  is  connected  by  life,  it 
is  life  in  this  peculiar  connection  that  feels  in  a  peculiar 
manner.  In  order  to  render  this  somewhat  difficult  and 
abstruse  idea  more  clear  and  distinct  to  all  classes  of 
readers,  we  will  make  use  of  some  illustrations.  "  The 
rainbow  is  a  phenomegon  well  known  to  all,;  how  is 
■    it  formed  ?  When  the  sun  sends  his  rays  in  a  particular 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  173 

angle  upon  a  watery  cloud,  the  beautiful  colors  and 
form  of  the  great  arch,  will  be  directly  seen.  Let  us 
examine  of  what  this  rainbow  consists.  Does  it  con- 
sist of  drops  of  water  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  light  on 
the  other?  By  no  means.  The  drops  of  water  are  to 
the  rainbow,  what  the  body  as  a  mere  corpse  is  to  man. 
The  drops  constantly  fall,  and  only  serve  to  represent 
or  reflect  the  different  colors  of  the  light.  It  is  the  sun 
that  produces  on  the  sheet  of  rain  both  color  and  shape. 
When  the  sun  disappears,  the  rainbow  with  its  colors 
is  gone,  but  the  gray  rain-drops  are  still  left.  Yet  as 
necessary  as  the  sheet  of  rain  is  for  the  rainbow,  so 
necessary  is  the  body  for  the  soul."  Or  let  us  take  ano- 
ther example.  When  the  artist  first  conceives  the  idea, 
either  of  a  musical  composition  or  of  any  noble  work 
in  literature  or  art,  it  will  be  yet  rude  and  unorganized. 
Carrying  it  in  his  mind  for  a  long  time,  this  idea  will 
become  more  clear,  one  part  shooting  forth  from  the 
other  until  the  whole  is  matured.  To  see  this  idea, 
clearly,  he  feels  impelled  to  give  it  an  external  form,  as 
on  the  marble,  if  the  artist  be  a  sculptor.  The 
marble  receives  the  image  of  this  idea^  and  if  fully  and 
well  expressed  by  a  skillful  chisel,  the  image  will  call 
forth  the  same  idea  in  the  bosom  of  every  one  who  ex- 
amines it  with  judgment.  It  would  however  certainly 
be  wrong  to  say  that  this  image  of  the  artist  consists 
on  the  one  hand  of  marble,  whiteness,  smoothness,  and 
on  the  other,  of  the  internal  idea,  for  the  marble  only 
represents  the  image,  but  it  is  not  in  any  way  the  image. 
So  it  would  be  wrong  to  say,  that  man  consists  of  two 
essentially  different  substances;  of  earth  and  the  soul ; 
but  he  is  soul  only^  and  cannot  be  any  thing  else.  This 
soul,  however,  unfolds  itself  externally  in  the  /i/eofthe 
body,  and  internally  in  the  life  of  mind.  Twofold  in 
its  development,  it  is  one  in  its  origin,  and  the  center  of 
this  union  is  our  personality.  Several  remarks  natural- 
ly flow  from  the  above  view  : 

First.  As  the  plant  can  never  pass  beyond  itself  and 
become  an  animal,  so  the  animal  cannot  by  a  continued 
development  reach  the  nature  and  life  of  man,  but  it  re- 
mains an  animal  for  ever.     For  so  much  only  can  be  de- 


174  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

veloped,as  exists  according  to  possibility  in  the  germ  of  a 
being ;  what  is  therefore  not  contained  in  this  possibility, 
or  germ,  or  origin,  cannot  proceed  from  it.  Thinking, 
judgtaent  and  reason,  or  soul  in  general,  not  being 
originally  in  the  idea  realized  in  the  animal, — the 
animal  of  course  differs  from  man  by  not  havings  a  soul. 
Though  it  has  sensation  and  perception,  these  again 
must  diifer  from  those  of  man,  as  they  do  not  include 
the  power  to  judge.  The  life  of  man  as  it  is  the  union 
of  physical  and  psychical,  is  not  to  be  considered  as 
a  higher  development  of  animal  life,  differing  only  in 
degree,  but  it  is  wholly  and  essentially  different  even  in 
its  principle.  It  is  therefore  not  a  transition  from  that 
which  is  not  human  to  the  human;  from  the  uncon- 
scious to  the  conscious.  It  is  not  the  same  animal  activ- 
ity,' only  clearer,  more  distinct  and  more  refined,  so 
that  the  whole  difference  is  one  of  quantity  and  not  of 
quality.  Feeling  however  elevated  and  refined  still  re- 
mains feeling. 

Secondly.  We  admit,  therefore,  of  a  difference  be- 
tween soul  and  body,  but  one  that  proceeds  from,  and 
terminates  in  a  union.  As  the  common  principle  of 
both  differs  from  every  other  in  nature,  so  the  bodily 
life  of  man  differs  from  that  of  the  animal.  It  is  from 
its  beginning  and  in  its  principle  different,  and  does  not 
merely  become  so.at  a  certain  stage. 

Thirdly.  This  theory  upholds  the  idea  of  a  creailion 
and  not  of  emanation.  God  remains  what  he  is,  the  un- 
changeable Jehovah  after  the  universe  is  created.  So  the 
mind  of  man  is  not  diminished  however  great  the  num- 
ber of  thoughts  which  it  produces.  On  the  other  hand, 
neither  the  body  nor  the  soul  is  the  ground  of  their  ex- 
istence, but  God  himself. 

PERSONALITY. 

Deus  nos  personat. 
The  term  person  comes  from  the  'L^Xm  per  sonar  e^  the 
original  meaning  of  which  is  to  sound  through.  It  was 
used  of  one,  who  was  not  like  a  slave,  a  mere  thing  sale- 
able and  transferable,  but  who  had  a  right  to  speak  and 
defend  himself  in  courts  of  justice.     In  this  respect  the 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  175 

German  word  for  person  fully  agrees  with  the  Latin  and 
English,  for  laut^  plural  leute^  has  exactly  the  same 
meaning.  From  this  it  must  appear  that  those  who 
consider  the  external,  visible  body  as  that  which  is 
named  by  person,  are  mistaken.  It  is  true  that /?er.vo72a 
signified  a  mark,  but  in  distinction  from  larva  one, 
that  by  an  instrument  rendered  the  voice  of  the  actor 
more  audible.  The  terna  person,  has  therefore,  a  direct 
bearing  upon  the  intelligence  of  man,  since  only  an  in- 
telligent being  can  comprehend  rights  and  duties,  and 
consequently  defend  them,  and  since  only  such  a  one 
can  speak.  The  animal  has  a  body,  and  in  the  more 
perfect  animals  wediscaver  all  the  organs  of  the  human 
frame,  yet  should  we  hesitate  to  speak  of  animal  person- 
ality. The  animal  is  an  individual,  that  feels  itself,  but 
cannot  be  a  person,  because  it  is  not  conscious  of  itself. 
Before  giving  a  definition  of  personality,  it  will  be  well 
to  define  the  term  individuality/.  We  have  it  in  com- 
mon with  the  animal,  while  we  share  personality  with 
the  Deity.  Individuality  is  the  center  or  union  of  many 
organical  functions,  that  proceed  from  it  and  return  to 
it.  It  is  the  power  that.produces  all  of  them  and  keeps 
them  related  to  each  other  and  to  their  whole.  It  is 
therefore  that  by  which  a  being  is  concentrated  upon 
itself— the  center  of  all  organic  activities.  It  renders  a 
living  organism  indivisible,  hence  it  is  called  individu- 
ality. The  stone  remains  what  it  is,  though  it  he  bro- 
ken into  small  particles,  but  an  animal  is  destroyed 
wheh  its  members  are  torn  asunder.  That  which  is 
wanting  to  individuality,  in  order  to  make  it  personali- 
ty, is  a  soul  capable  of  thinking  and  willing. 

Personality  is  likewise  a  center  and  union  of  the 
manifold,  but  one  that  is  awake  in  itself,  that  has  found 
and  laid  hold  of  itself,  and  having  once  found  cannot 
again  lose  itself,  but  will  enjoy  itself  for  ever.  It  is  the 
center  of  all  our  bodily  and  mental  activities  ;  emanci- 
pated from  all  that  is  not  itself,  it  reigns  over  all  the 
powers  of  body  and  soul,  for  it  is  that  which  must  take 
care  of  both.  It  is  the  person  within  us,  which  deter- 
mines itself  to  be  this  or  that ;  to  open  itself  to  any  in- 
fluence or  exclude  it ;  to  follow  one  or  the  other  direc- 


176  SELF-CONSCrOUSNESS* 

tion  ;  to  enter  a  sphere  of  activity  or  withdraw  from  all 
and  retire  within  itself.  Person  is  the  union  of  reason 
and  will,  for  /  know,  and  /  will  j  it  is  the  identity  of 
self-consciousness  and  self-love,  and  whatever  takes  place 
in  either  must  center  in  it,  and  only  thus  can  it  be  iden- 
tified with  the  being  that  knows  and  loves  itself.  It  re- 
mains the  same  whether  it  is  active  practically  or  theo- 
retically, or  whether  abstracted  from  all  without,  it  con- 
fines itself  wholly  to  itself.  Neither  character  nor  age, 
neither  knowledge  nor  temperament  can  affect  it.  The 
expression  for  our  personality  is  the  little  pronoun  /. 
A  short  explanation  of  it,  will  render  clear,  what  we  are 
to  understand  by  person  and  personal  identity. 

Every  word  contains  a  thought,  and  every  thought 
contains  truth  if  its  contents  correspond  entirely  with 
those  of  its  object.  Is  the  object  a  physical  or  histori- 
cal one?  then  its  contents  and  those  of  the  thought  of  it 
are  not  exactly  the  same.  I  have,  for  example,  as  cor- 
rect an  idea  of  the  sun,  as  the  present  state  of  astronomy 
makes  it  possible  for  me  to  form ;  but  the  contents  of 
the  sijn  are  light,  and  other  qualities,  while  those  of  the 
ideas  which  I  have  formed  of  it,  are  but  the  sensations 
and  perceptions  of  these  qualities,  but  not  light  itself  Of 
all  the  thoughts  we  have,  there  is  none,  that  in  this  re- 
spect is  equal  to  that  which  we  express  by  the  pronoun 
/.  Every  thought,  as  we  have  seen,  pre-supposes  a 
subject  that  thinks  and  an  object  thought  of.  In  the 
thought  contained  in  the  word  /,  subject  and  object  are 
perfectly  the  same,  for  it  is  /  that  thinks  and  /  that  is 
thought  of  There  1  am  active,  because  I  think,  here  / 
am  passive,  because  /am  the  subject  of  thought.  There 
is  a  difference  consequently,  but  one  that  when  rightlj^ 
considered,  is  really  none.  For  the  identity  between 
the  thought  and  its  subject,  expressed  by  /,  is  such  that 
the  being  of  the  one  is  that  of  the  other  also,  that  the 
one  cannot  be  separated  from  the  other,  for  the  one  is 
the  other.  This  it  is  that  we  call  personal  identity. 
Our  consciousness  may  be  enriched  with  knowledge 
and  again  forget  all  it  has  learned,  and  yet  our  /  will 
remain  the  same.  I  can  possess  nothing  else  in  the 
same  way  that  I  possess  myself ;  for  no  where  else  can 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  177 

subject  and  object  be  united  as  they  are  in  the  word,  /. 
The  same  that  1  express  by  this  term  in  my  youth,  I 
express  by  it  at  the  most  advanced  age,  and  even  in  the 
hour  of  death,  neither  form  nor  contents  being  in  the 
least  changed.  This  personal  identity  remains  so  much 
the  same  in  spite  of  all  changes  both  in  body  and  mind, 
that  though  two  children  resemble  each  other  much 
more  in  their  natures,  than  the  same  person  resembles 
himself  as  regards  bodily  vitjor,  in  his  youth  and  old 
age, — yet  will  the  personal  identity  be  the  same  with 
him  in  all  periods  of  life,  while  the  two  children  resem- 
bling each  other  in  other  respects,  widely  differ  in  their 
persons. 

It  is  this  T;  this  personal  identity,  which,  as  the  con- 
scious center  of  body  and  soul,  attributes  both  to  itself 
in  saying,  I  must  take  care  of  my  body  and  of  my  soul. 
Without  it,  there  could  be  no  inine  and  thine.  It  is  in- 
visible, can  neither  be  seen  nor  felt ;  is  neither  bone  nor 
muscle,  neither  nerve  nor  sinew;  and  is  only  accessible 
to  thought.  If  1  say,  I  have  wounded  myself,  I  speak 
inaccurately,  for  I  ought  to  say  I  have  hurt  my  limb,  my 
body.  This  invisible  /,  is  that  general  activity  which 
accompanies  all  our  actions  and  knowledge.  It  is  I 
that  feels  and  perceives  ;  that  comprehends  and  recol- 
lects ;  that  judges  and  concludes ;  that  resolves  and 
wills  and  acts.  I  am  active  in  all  these  different  ways,  ^ 
and  yet  remain  the  same  in  every  single  activity.  I 
may  enter  upon  any  activity  or  exclude  all. 

The  idea  of  personality,  as  may  be  easily  seen,  in- 
cludes that  of  independence  of  every  thing  that  is  not  it- 
self. It  rests  upon  itself,  and  as  it  is  the  center  of  all  in 
man.  so  it  is  the  center  of  all  nature  around,  for  it  is  not 
only  conscious  of  itself,  but  conscious  of  all  other  things. 
If  by  self-consciousness  it  inclines  to  itself,  taking  an  in- 
ward direction,  by  consciousness  of  other  things,  it  takes 
an  outward  direction,  one  away  from  itself.  And  in 
this  light  we  have  yet  to  view  personality. 

The  person  is  not  only  the  center  of  man,  whose 
radii  and  periphery  are  all  the  activities  of  body  and  soul, 
and  by  which  all  of  them  are  fronounced^  that  is  through 
which  they  sound,  personantj  but  it  is  also, 

23 


178  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

1.  The  center  of  nature,  the  echo  of  the  universe. 
What  nature  contains  scattered  and  in  fragments,  is 
united  in  the  person  of  man.  Every  isolated  feeling, 
every  solitary  sound  in  nature  is  to  pass  through  man's 
personality  and  to  center  in  it.  His  personality  is  the 
great,  beautiful,  and  complete  6eZ/,  that  annonncesevery 
thinof,  while  nature  contains  only  parts  of  it,  the  sounds 
of  which  are  dark  and  dull. 

2.  Our  personality  is  the  center  of  the  whole  human 
race,  for  it  contains  the  generality  and  individuality 
united  in  one.  It  expresses  a  single  and  individual  be- 
ing, separating  it  from  all  others  ;  and  again  it  is  most 
general,  since  every  one  is  an  I  like  myself  This  /is, 
therefore,  not  like  a  proper  name,  but  it  is  a  word,  that 
conveys  a  most  general  idea.  Thus  in  our  personality, 
the  general  and  individual  are  so  united,  that  the  one  is 
contained  in  the  other.  This  will  appear  from  the  fol- 
lowing remarks : — We  speak  of  a  national  spirit,  of  na- 
tional honor,  of  national  art  and  literature  ;  these  do  not 
and  cannot  exist  in  the  abstract,  their  existence  must  be 
concrete.  It  becomes  concrete  when  the  general  and 
individual  grow  together,  concresco,  or  are  united,  when 
therefore,  the  general  becomes  conscious  of  itself  in  the 
individual.  Greece,  as  such,  could  not  become  conscious 
of  its  honor  or  literature,  but  when  this  general  national 
spirit  becomes  individualized  in  a  Plato  or  Sophocles,  it 
becomes  conscious  of  itself  Hence  it  is  their  personality, 
in  which  the  Greek  spirit  must  center,  and  through  which 
as  its  organ,  it  expresses  itself  by  works  of  literature  and 
art.  True  genius,  must  therefore  always  bear  the  charac- 
ter of  a  national  generality, — genius  comes  from  genus — 
and  the  less  individuality  appears  in  its  productions,  the 
more  valuable  it  is.  The  history  of  a  nation,  and  its 
institutions  will  all  express  the  national  spirit,  as  the 
actions  and  feeling  show  the  character  of  a  person  ;  but 
without  individuals,  a  nation  could  have  no  history. 
According  to  this, 

3.  Our  personality  is  complete  only  when  we  are 
conscious  of  God  and  our  relation  to  him,  and  when  we 
suffer  God  to  speak  to  it  and  through  it.  It  is  not 
nature  nor  matter  that  produces  personality,  but  God 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  179 

who  is  the  person.  We  can  know  a  thing  thoroughly 
only  when  we  are  acquainted  with  its  ground — so  man 
must  know  God  before  he  can  become  truly  acquainted 
with  himself.  Personality  is,  therefore,  that  transparent 
center  in  man,  through  which  every  general  and  noble 
activity  is  to  pass,  and  in  which  it  is  to  become  con- 
scious of  itself. 

This  personality  of  man  is  not,  however,  active  imme- 
diately after  birth.  The  child  feels  as  soon  as  it  enters 
the  world,  but  it  is  only  with  difficulty  that  it  becomes 
conscious  of  itself.  It  may  soon  notice  its  single  mem- 
bers, the  hand,  the  foot,  the  lips,  but  to  enable  it  to  com- 
prehend the  body  and  soul  as  a  whole,  whose  center  it 
is  itself,  requires  much  time  and  labor  on  the  part  of  its 
instructors.  Hence  long  after  the  child  speaks,  it  names 
itself,  not  by  the  term  /,  but  by  its  proper  name,  speak- 
ing of  itself  in  the  third  person,  as  "  William  wants  this 
or  that."  It  is  with  the  personality  of  the  child  as  with 
the  life  of  a  plant,  which  needs  the  aid  of  many  physic- 
al influences.  Or  like  a  torch  that  must  be  lighted  be- 
fore it  can  illuminate.  Hence  it  is  that  children  ex- 
posed in  their  infancy  and  grown  up  in  the  woods,  can 
neither  speak,  nor  think,  nor  remember.  A  boy  found 
in  the  Hanoverian  woods,  about  eleven  years  old,  ran  on 
his  hands  and  feet,  climbed  trees  with  great  skill  and  was 
perfectly  wild.  When  caught  and  properly  attended  to, 
he  could  remember  nothing  beyond  the  time  when  he 
was  placed  under  the  influence  of  man.  And  so  it  was 
in  many  other  instances  of  the  same  kind,  eight  of 
which  have  been  noticed  by  Linnaeus  under  the  head 
Homo  sapiens ferus^  or  the  wise  wild  man. 

This  awaking  of  the  child  in  itself  is  like  the  rising 
of  a  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness.  The  state  of  exist- 
ence, preceding  that  in  which  the  child  finds  itself,  is 
dark,  and  we  are  not  conscious  of  it.  So  man  is  like  a 
night-plant,  whose  top  only  is  penetrated  by  the  liffht, 
while  many  powers  and  qualities  are  left  in  the  dark 
soil  below,  which  v/ill  never  wholly  rise  into  the  sphere 
of  light.  As  regards  even  our  person,  therefore,  we  are 
surrounded  by  darkness  in  the  midst  of  light. 


180  SELF-CONSGIOUSNESa. 


DIVISION. 

Until  recently,  mental  philosophers  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  representing  mind  as  a  compound  of  many  fac- 
ulties, as  a  whole  made  up  of  parts.     This  view  of  the 
soul  is  a  mechanical  one,  and  does  not  regard  the  charac- 
ter of  life  in  general.     It  is  scarcely  necessary  now  to 
refute  an  idea  so  spiritless,  for  who  can  believe  that  the 
faculties  of  mind  areas  separate  and  distinct  as  draw- 
ers in  a  chest,  each  answering  a  certain  purpose  and 
occupying  a  place,  from  which  all  the  others  must  be 
excluded.     According  to  this  view  the  faculties  do  not 
proceed  from  one  general  principle,  for  the  power  of 
perception  and  that  of  memory,  differ  as  widely  as  the 
various  parts  of  a  machine.     These  faculties  are  united, 
but  only  as  the  different  cells  of  wasps  are  held  together 
by  the  sheet  of  comb  on  which  they  are  built.     As  to 
the  rest,  the  wasp  occupying  one  cell,  does  not  and  can- 
not know  much  of  its  neighbor  residino:  in  a  different 
one.     The  question  has,  therefore,  justly  been  asked — 
How,  if  the  mind  consists  of  so  many  faculties,  each  of 
which  is  separate  from  the  other,  can  they  be  united  in 
one  consciousness?     If  fancy,  in   its  cell,  re-produces 
an  image,  how  can  consciousness,  a  power  different  from 
fancy,  take  cognizance  of  it  ?     To  say  that  each  faculty 
has  a  consciousness  of  its  own,  would  be  highly  absurd, 
since  we  should  then  be  forced  to  admit  a  plurality  of 
consciousness.     How   this    plurality   of  consciousness 
could  be  internally  united  into  one,  it  would  be  hard  to 
understand.   This  whole  view  has  been,  therefore,  more 
or  less  relinquished,  and  one  directly  opposed  to  it  has 
been  received.     There  is  but  one  thinking  power  in 
man.  It  is  the  vsame  when  it  judges  as  when  it  observes, 
comprehends,  thinks,  or  wills.     The  apparent  difference 
is  produced  either  by  the  object  to  which  it  is  ditected, — 
as  for  instance  it  is  designated  as  memory  when  direct- 
ed to  the  past,  imagination  when  turned  to  the  future; 
— or,  by  the  greater  or  less  degree,  in  which  it  exerts 
itself.     For  whether  I  have  a  sensation  of  a  thing,  or  a 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  181 

comprehension,  it  is  nearly  the  same,  only  that  the  lat- 
ter is  a  higher  stage  of  thinking.  By  sensation  1  com- 
prise many  qualities  and  pronounce  their  union  o.  thing 
or  individual;  by  comprehension  I  unite  many  indi- 
viduals, and  call  this  union  a  class.  It  is  the  same  ac- 
tivity only  raised  in  the  latter  instance. 

But  the  mind  is  neither  a  multitude  of  faculties,  nor 
is  it  a  simple,  identical  activity,  but  it  is  a  umo7i  that 
not  only  comprises  the  manifold,  but  produces  it  by  un- 
folding its  life  organically.     There  are  many  kinds  of 
union  :  a  mechanical  one,  as  that  of  a  machine;  and  an  or- 
ganic one,  as  that  of  a  living  plant.     The  latter  will  serve 
to  explain  the  union  here  spoken  of     When  we,  for  the 
first  time,  watch  an  apple  tree  from  its  earliest  growth 
till  it  blossoms  and  yields  fruit,  we  are  at  once  ready  to 
say  that  the  first  leaves  of  the  youngtree  which  sprouts 
from  the  soil  differ  as  widely  from  those  which  after- 
wards appear  on  the  trunk  and  branches,  as  these  from 
the  blossoms  and  the  blossoms  from  the  fruit.     We  are, 
therefore,  inclined  to  view  this  tree  as  made  up  of  so 
many  different  organs,  as  the  old  psychology  considers 
the  soul  as  consisting  of  so  many  faculties.     But  then 
again,  if  some  one  should  direct  our  attention  to  the 
fact  that  each  succeeding  formation  is  but  a  repetition  of 
a  former  one,  that  the  first  leaves,  for  instance,  which 
sprout  forth  near  the  ground,  thick,  colorless,  and  full 
of  unrefined  rude  sap,  are  repeated  by,  or  transformed 
•  into  leaves  of  the  trunk,  that,  being  raised  above  the 
ground  and  more  exposed  to  the  sun  and  purer  atmos- 
phere, they  become  more  refined,  more  vigorous  and 
more  beautifully  formed, — weshould  willingly  acknow- 
ledge that  the  plant  could  not  be  made  up  of  pans  in- 
dependent of  each  other,  but  that  the  whole  was  pro- 
duced by  the  plastic  power  contained  in  the  seed.     And 
weshould  do  so  the  more  readily,  if  we  should  discover 
that  as  the  tree  spreads  into  twigs  and  leaves,  the  suc- 
ceeding leaves  still  become  more  refined,  more  perfect 
in  shape  and  color,  until   many  cluster   totrether  and 
form  a  bud,  which  opening,  shows  itself  clad  in  red  and 
white,  surround  by  the  tender  green  of  the  leaves  near- 
est to  it.     This  is  not  all.     The  fruit  itself,  consists  but 


182  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

of  a  cluster  of  leaves,  which,  absorbins:  the  finest  jnice 
of  the  tree,  and  constantly  nourished  by  the  rays  of  the 
sun  and  the  warmth  of  the  atmosphere,  are  peculiarly 
organized  to  filtrate  all  the  nourishment  they  thus  re- 
ceive. These  compact  leaves  at  first  taste  like  other 
leaves  and  are  of  their  color  ;  but  they  expand,  and  final- 
ly appear  as  a  fruit,  wholly  different  from  any  other 
part  of  the  tree.  The  fruit,  be  it  an  apple  or  a  grape,  is 
only  the  capsule  of  the  seed,  and  as  the  latter  ripens,  this 
decays.  In  this  respect  the  pod  of  the  bean  has  the 
same  design  with  the  finest  pear.  In  proof  of  our  as- 
sertion, it  may  be  remarked,  that  the  pod  of  the  bean  is 
merely  a  leaf  bent  together.  The  same  is  true  of  the 
pods  of  radishes,  peas,  (fee.  In  the  apple  then,  we  eat 
nothing  but  the  refined  and  filtrated  moisture  of  the 
earth,  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  the  balm  of  the  atmos- 
phere, as  it  lives  and  works  in  the  other  leaves. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  in  proportion  as  we  nourish  a 
plant  with  rude  and  heavy  manure,  it  produces  dark, 
strong  and  large  leaves,  thus  retarding  its  state  of  bloom. 
This  shows  that  these  stronger  leaves  filtrate  aiid  pre- 
pare the  juices  for  the  higher  and  more  dt-licate  leaves, 
and  that  these  again  are  the  same  leaves  at  a  higher 
stage,  that  we  before  noticed  at  a  lower  one.  It  is  there- 
fore certain,  that  it  is  the  same  organ  which  first  ap- 
pears at  the  root,  then  higher  up,  and  finally  as  blos- 
som and  fruit.  Considering  this  we  might  be  induced 
to  suppose  the  plant  or  the  tree,  as  simple  an  activity,  as 
some  have  represented  mind.  Yet  in  examining  a  plant 
or  tree  a  little  more  closely,  we  must  perceive  that  while 
all  the  different  parts  constantly  repeat  but  one  organ 
and  proceed  from  one  common  power,  they  nevertheless 
differ,  each  having  a  peculiar  office  to  perform  for  the 
development  and  preservation  of  their  general  life.  This 
view,  the  only  correct  one,  unites  the  two  former.  For 
according  to  it  we  perceive  on  the  one  hand  a  union,  an 
identity,  and  on  the  other  a  variety  ;  but  the  variety  and 
difference  proceeds  from  the  union,  which  appears  in 
every  single  organ,  and  only  unfolds  itself  by  all  of 
thera.  This  leads  us  once  more  to  the  idea  of  develop- 
ment.    Whatever  develops  itself,  changes,  yet  it  does 


SELF-COKSCIOUSNESS.  183 

not  become  any  thing  else  than  it  was  when  undevelop- 
ed. For  while  it  takes  difterent  forms,  it  remains  the 
same  in  all  of  them  ;  while  it  exhibits  itself  nnder  dif- 
ferent aspects,  it  does  not  pass  over  into  any  thing  that 
is  not  itself,  nor  does  it  receive  any  of  its  various  forms 
from  without,  but  all  develop  themselves  from  within. 
It  becomes  and  exists  otherwise  when  developed,  than 
when  undeveloped,  but  it  has  not  become  any  tliinof  else. 
Develop! nof  itself,  it  becomes  in  reality,  what  before  it 
was  according  to  possibility  and  energy.  So  the  bulb 
of  a  hyacinth  may  be  said  to  be  and  not  to  be  the  hya- 
cinth. It  is  the  hyacinth  according  to  energy,  and 
nothing  can  grow  forth  from  it,  that  is  not  in  it ;  and 
again  it  is  not  yet  the  hyacinth,  for  it  has  not  yet  grown 
forth.  The  growing  forth  is  the  development  of  the  en- 
ergy slumberinor  in  the  bulb.  The  idea  of  development 
contains,  therefore,  the  idea  of  a  transition  from  the  in- 
visible to  the  visible,  from  the  dark  and  unknown  to  the 
manifest  and  revealed.  Thus  the  soul  contains  in  its 
simple  identical  activity,  all  that  afterwards  appears  in 
succession,  under  the  form  of  faculties.  They  are  but 
the  development  of  the  energy  of  the  soul,  but  its  repre- 
sentation and  its  organs.  Hence  the  soul  is  an  energy, 
that  in  developing  itself,  remains  the  same  that  it  was, 
and  yet  becomes  different.  It  remains  the  same,  for 
nothing  is  added  from  without,  all  comes  from  within  j 
it  is  different,  for  it  exists  in  its  developed  state.  The  first 
developments  of  the  plant  are,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
roots  and  rude  leaves,  which  become  more  refined  as 
they  grow  higher  on  the  stock ;  the  first  development 
of  the  soul,  the  leaves  near  the  roots  of  its  existence  are 
the  senses ;  these  are  followed  by  attention  and  concep- 
tion. Higher  tban  these  are  fancy,  imagination  and 
memory,  which  may  be  considered  the  blossoms  on  the 
tree  of  knowledge,  while  pure  thinking,  under  the  form 
of  the  understanding,  judgment,  reason  and  will,  are  the 
ripe  fruits.  And  here  we  may  remark,  that  there  could 
be  no  blossoms,  were  there  no  leaves  near  the  root ;  but  as 
the  juice  in  them  rises  higher,  it  becomes  more  refined, 
until  it  appears  pure  and  clear  in  blossom  and  fruit.  So 
sensation  is  the  beginning  and  root  of  all  knowledge. 


184  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

and  nothing  can  enter  the  understanding  that  has  not 
first  been  received  by  sensation.  As  it  passes  from  the 
lower  to  the  hiijher  activities  of  mind,  it  becomes  more 
and  belter  known,  and  like  the  fruit,  more  refined.' 
Again,  as  the  bloom  of  a  plant  may  be  retarded,  or  wholly 
prevented  by  rude  nourishment,  so  sensual  persons  may 
always  move  in  the  sphere  of  sensuality,,and  Satisfied 
with  it,  never  look  for  any  thing  beyond. 

Psychology  will  be  divided  into  two  sections :  the 
former  treating  of  Reason  in  general,  the  latter  of  the 
Will. 


185 


SECTION  I. 

ON  REASON. 

CHAPTER  I. 


SENSATION  AND  THE  SENSES.* 

Nihil  est  in  intellectu,  quod  non  antea  fuerit  in  sensu. 

Sensation  has  several  times  been  the  subject  of  our 
consideration  ;  it  is  the  soil  from  which  all  knowledge 
arises  ;  the  chaos  from  which  mind  creates  its  intellect- 
ual world.  With  it  the  development  of  mind  com- 
mences, and  in  it  mind  has,  all  the  materials  with  which 
to  establish  its  sciences.  Sensation  is  therefore,  the  first 
.  stage,  in  which  the  general  possibility,  from  which  all 
the  developments  of  mind  proceed,  realizes  itself.  For 
feeling  an  object,  we  must  feel  it  in  ourselves.  In  hav- 
ing a  sensation,  we  therefore  feel  ourselves,  and  some- 
thing different  from  ourselves,  and  thus  we  are  roused 
to  self-consciousness  by  the  object  felt,  and  hence  sen- 
sation may  be  considered  as  the  indispensable  condition 
of  Self-consciousness.  Sensation,  as  we  have  seen,  dif- 
fers from  feeling,  and  yet  has  many  things  in  common 
with  it.     Like  it,  it  pre-supposes  nothing  but  life  for  its 

*  For  sensation  some  writers  here  would  use  the  term  perceptio7i,  as  re- 
ferring to  the  notice  which  the  percipient  mind  takes  of  external  objects. 
The  author,  however,  prefers  the  term  sensation,  since  his  principal  ob- 
ject here  is  to  speak  of  the  affection  of  the  senses  as  called,  forth  by  ex- 
ternal impressions  on  them,  and  h©  trusts  that  he  will  be  pardoned 
this  somewhat  unusual  application  of  the  word,  and  that  candid  readers 
in  forming  their  judgment  of  his  views  will  bear  in  mind  the  above  ex- 
planation. 

24 


186  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

^      ^'  ■      .  - 

existence  ;  as  we  do  not  need  to  learn  how  to  feel,  so  we 
^-  have  sensations  without  instruction,  all  they  require 
being-  life  itself.  To  learn  how  to  judge,  time  is  neces- 
sary, but  feeling  and  sensations  are  inseparably  con- 
nected with  the  activity  of  animal  life.  On  the  other 
hand,  feeling  and  sensation  differ  as  before  seen,  for  the 
former  is  not  circumscribed  in  its  form,  nor  are  its  con- 

ir  tents  clear  and  distinct;  the  latter  is  a  limitation  of  the 

I  4.  feeling  activity,  an  affection  of  one  of  the  senses.  Yet 
not  every  limitation  of  an  dCtivitY  is  sensation, — the  light, 
for  instance,  is  an  activity;  falling  upon  a  smooth,  well 

•  pblished  surface,  it  is  reflected,  consequently  its  flow  is 

•     '-        limited,  but  no  sensation  is  produced.     Sensation  is  the 

•j       ^      limitation  of  an  activity,  which  is  felt  by  the  activity. 

^  Hence  every  sensation  pre-supposes  the  limitation  of 

an  activity,  and  a  feeling  of  this  limitation  : — This  limi- 
tation is  only  felt ;  feeling  is  dark  and  indistinct  ;  hence 
it  is,  that  mere  sensation  does  not  distinguish  between 
itself  and  its  contents,  and  that  no  being  can,  by  sensa- 
tion alone,  distinguish  between  the  sensations  of  the 
different  senses.  We  have  sensations  of  the  eye,  and 
the  ear,  of  taste  and  feeling  ;  they  differ  essentially  and 
have  different  contents  ;  but  sensation  does  not  distin- 
guish between  them  and  their  contents.  All  is  confu- 
sedly mixed  together,  and  it  is  only  by  attention  and 
judgment,  that  distinction  and  order  are  produced. 

*-^  Again,  the  contents  of  our  sensations  and  the  objects 

which  produce  them  are  not  the  same.  The  bird,  for 
instance,  that  flies  through  the  air,  is  not  contained  in 
my  eye,  but  in  the  air;  its  image  however,  its  plumage 
and  motions  are  contained  in  my  sensation.  To  enable 
us  to  separate  the  contents  of  our  sensations  from  their 
external  objects,  judgment  is  necessary.  This  sufii- 
xiently  appears  from  a  remarkable  case  that  came  un- 
der the  observation  of  Dr.  (Jheselden,  in  the  year  1727. 
He  succeeded  in  giving  sight  to  a  youth  of  twenty 
years,  who  was  born  blind.  When  the  bandage  Wcis 
removed,  the  lad  supposed  that  whatever  he  saw,  was 
not  without  but  within  his  eyes.  After  some  time  he  per- 
ceived that  the  things  seen  by  him  were  not  in  his  eye,  but 
now  he  saw  all  of  them  on  ojie  surface  before  him.  It  was 


% 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  18T 

only  by  using  his  hands  thtat  he  obtained  an  idea  of  dis- 
tance and  separation.  This  was  quite  natural,  for  that 
which  we  feel,  is  not  the  object ;  this  is  without  us. 
We  feel  only  an  impression,  and  this  is  an  affection  of 
our  senses.  We  feel,  therefore,  strictly  speaking,  only 
ourselves  or  the  affection  of  our  senses,  and  hence  it  is, 
that  the  child  does  not  distinguish  between  sensations 
and  their  contents,  nor  between  these  and  their  objects.  ^  ^ 
Distinction  and  order  are  therefore,  not  by  sensation  as 
such",  but  by  thought  and  judgment.  Another  example 
may  serve  to  make  this  still  more  clear.  When  we 
first  cast  our  eye  over  a  scarcely  legible  page,  all  seems 
confusion  ;  but  as  soon  as  we  examine  the  writing  more 
closely,  as  soon  as  we  can  discern  the  letters,  and  con- 
nect them  into  syllables  and  words,  the  confusion  dis- 
appears. This  connection  is,  however,  not  the  act  of 
sensation,  but  of  attention  and  judgment.  Nor  can  we 
by  sensation  discover  any  thing  that  is  general  in  its  na- 
ture. The  eye  cannot  see  to  what  species  or  genus  a 
thing  belongs,  this  can  be  perceived  only  by  the  judg- 
ment. Life,  for  instance,  is  something  general ;  but  it 
cannot  be  perceived  by  the  senses  ;  no  one  has  yet  seen 
life  as  such  with  his  eyes,  or  heard  it  with  his  ears. 
From  its  productions,  we  may  conclude  upon  life  as  the 
power  that  calls  them  forth  ;  but  when  we  draw  con- 
clusions, we  think.  So  we  may  feel  the  smooth  bark 
of  a  plant,  see  the  pure  white  of  the  lily,  or  the  tender 
red  of  a  rose ;  but  the  life  of  the  lily  we  cannot  see. 
We  may  taste  the  juice  of  the  grape,  but  its  life  we  can 
neither  taste,  nor  discover  by  tasting  the  grape.  Lifeless 
elementary  nature  alone  is  subject  to  our  sensations,  life 
as  such  is  not,  though  its  productions  may  be  seen,  or 
tasted,  or  felt. 

If  sensation  is  a  medium  between  man  and  natural 
objects,  if  by  it  only,  man  can  become  conscious  of  the 
external  world,  the  senses  which  render  sensation  pos- 
sible, next  demand  our  attention.  It  is  by  them  that  the 
universe  is  opened  to  us,  and  we  may  become  conscious 
of  all  its  beauties  and  laws,  its  powers  and  their  produc- 
tions, and  thus  enrich  ourselves  with  knowledge. 
Their  physiology  is  here  to  be  left  out  of  view,  and 


188  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

their  psychological  importance  can  only  be  touched  on, 
nor  is  it  necessary  to  do  more,  since  so  many  works 
give  a  full  exhibition  of  the  manner  in  which  the  no- 
tions of  time  and  space,  of  substance  and  accidents  &c., 
are  formed  by  the  aid  of  the  senses. 

That  which  is  to  be  felt,  must  have  power  to  af- 
fect the  senses.  Whatever  is  too  weak  to  do  this, 
cannot  impress  them,  and  consequently  cannot  be  per- 
cieved  by  them.  We  must  not,  therefore,  imagine 
that  all  the  activities  of  nature  are  perceptible  to  our 
senses ;  there  are  doubtless  many  of  which  we  are  at 
present  entirely  ignorant.  The  following  are  the  prin- 
cipal objects  of  sensation  :  .  ' 

1.  Matter  in  general,  its  gravity,  its  mechanical  co- 
hesion, the  structure  of  bodies,  their  smoothness,  rough- 
ness, sharpness,  softness  and  hardness  ;  the  tempera- 
ture and  its  changes.  The  sensation  is  that  of  feeling, 
and  in  man  the  organ  is  the  skin.  The  skin  is  sensi- 
tive in  proportion  as  it  is;  tight.  The  lips,  the  arms  and 
hands,  feel  very  quickly.  The  structure  of  a  body  may 
be  felt  by  the  hand.  Forming  a  semi-circle,  it  can 
easily  adapt  itself  to  almost  any  form  ;  both  hands  join- 
ed form  a  sphere,  the  prototype  of  all  .other  forms.  In 
the  lower  classes  of  animals,  the  nerves  are  hard,  and 
possess  but  little  flexibility.  The  higher  classes  are 
generally  covered  with  fur,  feathers,  or  scales,  and  feel- 
ing is  therefore  not  very  fine.  Some  have  feelers  and 
proboscis,  others  a  tender  skin,  as  snails  and  serpents  ; 
but  none  have  arms  and  hands,  carried  by  the  body  and 
perfectly  free  for  the  purpose  of  feeling: 

2.  Its  chimical  qualities.  Matter  has  internal  qualities 
that  can  only  be  perceived. in  a  state  of  solution,  and 
this  state  is  either  that  of  an  inelastic  or  hat  of  an  elas- 
tic fluid.  Under  the  first  form,  it  is  liquid  in  general, 
the  sensation  is  taste,  and  the  organ  is  the  tongue. 
Nothing  can  be  tasted  before  it  is  dissolved.  The  me- 
dium of  taste  is  water.  Tasting  is  a  complete  chimical 
process.  The  thing  to  be  tasted  is  separated  by  the 
teeth,  tongue  and  saliva,  and  its  qualities  are  caused 
to  penetrate  each  other.  The  sense  of  taste  discovers 
more  chimical  qualities,  than   any  chimical  analysis. 


SELF-CONSGIOUSNESS.  1S9 

Hence  the  term  taste  is  ever  applied  to  the  investigation 
of  beauty  in  the  sphere  of  art.  Finally,  the  tons^ne 
stands  in  a  close  relation  to  the  stomach,  it  is  indeed  a 
mera  continuation  of  it.  Tasting  is  the  beginning  of 
digestion.  The  tongue  proves  the  food  for  the  stomach. 
It  is  remarkable  that  wliile  animals  surpass  man  in 
other  senses,  the  tongue  is  not  found  fully  among  them. 
21oophytes,  worms,  and  the  lower  classes  of  fish,  have 
no  tongue  ;  insects  have  frequently  only  a  wart ;  and 
the  tongue  of  other  animals  is  often  covered  with  scales. 
— Nothing  can  produce  the  sensation  of  smell,  unless  it 
is  in  an  aeriform  solution.  The  organ  of  smell  is 
the  nose  :  its  medium,  the  air.  Every  thing  smelled  is 
assimilated;  it  enters  through  the  nose,  the  cerebral 
system  and  lungs.  Hence  there  is  a  close  connection 
between  the  lungs  and  the  nose,  the  latter  proving  the 
air  for  the  former,  and  warning  it  not  to  inhale  it,  when 
corrupt.  Strong  vapors  and  exhalations  frequently 
cause  swooning,  nausea,  cramps,  (fcc. 

3.  Light  and  Sound.  Light.  That  which  is  seen 
is  not  pure  light,  nor  space,  nor  matter,  but  light  as  ren- 
dered visible  by  matter.  The  sensation  is  that  of  sight, 
the  organ  is  the  eye;  the  mediums  of  sight  are  the 
fluids,  solids  and  gaseous  elements.  The  sense  of  sight 
having  reference  to  judgment,  we  must  learii  to  see. 
— Sound  is  produced  by  the  elastic  vibrations  of  bodies  ; 
the  sensation  is  that  of  hearing,  the  ear  is  the  organ,  and 
ether  the  medium.  As  optics  and  acoustics  treat  very 
fully  on  these  two  senses,  they  are  only  menticaied^hf^e 
for  the  sake  of  completeness.  ,     ?^'^o^¥\v~ 

,  GENERAL  REMARKS  ON  THE  S^iW^.i  V  E  k'. 

General  feeling  is  the  root  from  which  alt^he  senSfepFn 
grow  forth.  It  has  no  external  organ  and  is  not  T«lat^' ' 
to  external  objects,  but  has  only  r,eference  to  the  living 
and  feeling  being,  informing  it  of  the  state  of  its  organ- 
ism. By  Jt  we  may  form  an  idea  of  what  will  benefit 
or  injure  our  bodily  system,  so  that  we  may  govern  our 
appetites  and  regulate  our  diet.  Its  organ  is  not  proper- 
ly speaking,  a  sense,  not  a  cluster  of  nerves,  but  all  the 


190  SELF-GONSCIOUSNESS. 

nerves  as  a  whole.  It  is  called  general  feeling,  because 
it  indicates  the  general  state  of  the  system,  general  de- 
bility or  vigor,  general  warmth  or  chillinesSj  general  pain 
or  pleasure  : — and  again,  hunger  or  thirst,  refreshment 
or  satisfaction.  The  objects  of  this  feeling  are,  therefore, 
the  changeable  statesof  the  functions  and  organs  of  the 
body,  which  could  not  be  perceived  by  the  single  sen- 
ses. As  all  the  senses  have  their  root  in  this  coinmon 
or  ^eweraZ  feehng,  so  it  is  again  affected  by  all  the  im- 
pressions made  upon  them.  Hence  every  sensation  we 
have  is  the  feeling  of  a  change  in  our  general  feeling, 
and  as  our  disposition  and  humor  depend  greatly  on 
the  state  of  our  general  feeling,  it  will  on  the  other 
hand  modify  the  influence  of  these  impressions  upon 
us,  as  on  the  other  it  will  be  influenced  by  them.  The 
former  appears  from  the  fact,  that  the  same  temperature 
affects  persons  so  differently,  that  each  if  asked  would 
give  a  different  degree  of  heat  or  cold.  The  latter  is  sub- 
stantiated by  the  effects  which  impressions,  made  upon 
the  senses,  have  in  cheering  or  depressing  the  spirits. 

A  sense,  affected  by  an  external  object  in  harmony 
with  its  own  nature,  feels  pleasure,  but  if  affected  too 
strongly,  or  against  its  nature,  pain — this  feeling, 
whether  of  pain  or  pleasure,  will  be  communicated  to 
the  whole  system,  and  to  what  has  been  called  general 
feeling  by  the  connection  of  the  principal  nerve  of  the 
sense  affected,  with  all  the  nerves  of  the  body.  Hence 
cold  and  heat,  a  clear  or  cloudy  sky  have  such  an  influ- 
ence upon  us  ;  a  good  dinner  renders  us  comfortable 
and  satisfied ;  delicate  odors  enliven  the  imagination 
and  spread  pleasure  over  all  our  feelings.  The  opposite 
of  these  will,  of  course,  have  an  opposite  effect. 

On  these  usual  effects  of  impressions  from  the  senses 
on  our  general  feelings  depends  the  symbolization  of 
colors  and  music.  To  give  a  few  examples,  black  is  the 
color  of  mourning,  because  it  extinguishes  all  other 
colors  ;  white  is  the  color  of  innocence,  because  it  is  the 
general  ground  for  all  colors.  Black  and  white  mixed, 
form  gray^  the  color  of  resignation,  fear,  uneasiness  and 
twilight.  Hence  nearly  all  nations  represent  good  beings 
in  white,  evil  spirits  in  black,  and  ghosts  in  gray.    Blue, 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.       ^  191 

the  color  of  the  atmosphere  we  inhale,  and  which  quick- 
ens us,  attracts,  hence  it  is  the  color  of  desire,  longing, 
faithfuhiess,  for  faithfulness  belongs  not  to  itself,  but  to 
another.  Pure  yellow  is  the  color  of  gold,  it  attracts 
us  strongly  and  is  the  color  of  cheerfulness.  Red,  the 
color  of  fire,  like  it  pierces  the  eye,  and  is  the  symbol  of 
power.  Popes,  cardinals,  and  kings  are  therefore  clad 
in  the  different  shades  of  red,  some  of  which  express 
violence,  as  orange,  others  a  concealed  tendency  to  pow- 
er, as  the  crimson  of  cardinals.  The  same  may  be  ob- 
served with  regard  to  sounds.  Some  of  them,  as  that  of 
cutting  glass,  grate  on  the  ear  ;  others  soften  or  rejoice 
the  heart,  and  excite  the  activity  of  the  limbs.  And 
how  various  are  the  emotions  called  forth  by  the  rust- 
ling of  branches,  the  murmuring  of  a  brook,  the  sighing 
of  the  wind  ;  by  the  war-like  sound  of  a  trumpet,  or 
the  soft  tones  of  a  distant  flute.  The  power  of  music 
may  likewise  be  seen  from  the  great  influence  it  has 
on  animals.  Mice  are  known  to  have  been  killed  by 
it ;  horses  are  animated  by  the  sound  of  the  trumpet. 

The  degree  of  a  nation's  cultivation  may  easily  be  re- 
cognized by  their  fondness  for  penetrating  or  lively  colors, 
and  their  copious  mixture  on  a  small  surface,;  or  by  the 
more  refined  taste,  that  prefers  delicate  colors,  their 
regular  distribution,  and  harmonious  connection.  Music 
is  likewise  a  criterion  of  the  cultivation  of  a  nation. 
Delight  in  simple  melodies,  or  in  a  grand  composition, 
in  a  single  instrument,  or  in  the  concert  of  many,  will 
indicate  the  state  of  civilization  and  refinement :— Smell 
and  taste  have  also  their  fashions,  by  which  the  civilized 
differ  from  the  uncivilized. 

The  noblest  senses  of  man  are  the  eye  and  the  ear. 
For  while  the  others  have  reference,  either  to  matter  or 
its  chimical  qualities,  theyrefer  the  one  to  the  judgment, 
the  other  to  understanding.  If  we  compare  them  with 
each  other,  we  find  that  both  are  senses  for  form  ;  and 
therefore  the  mediums  of  art  and  literature.  Painting, 
sculpture,  and  architecture,  depend  on  sight,  as  music, 
poetry  and  science  on  hearing.  While  the  eye  opens  the 
universe  with  its  thousands  of  objects,  the  ear  is  their  com- 
mon echo,  and  communicates  to  us  their  internal  being. 


192  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, 

The  eye  is  coId,d welling  only  on  the  surface  of  things, 
while  the  ear  listens  to  every  sound  of  nature,  and 
makes  us  feel  with  all  that  lives  ;  for  whatever  can  emit 
sound,  from  the  gushing  water,  and  the  singing  bird  to 
man,  expresses  by  it  the  degree  of  its  vigor,  the  manner 
of  its  life.  The  ear  excites,  therefore,  more  deep  sympa- 
thy than  the  eye.  The  statue  of  Laocoon  leaves  us 
more  cold  than  the  description  of  his  sufferings  in  Vir- 
gil. Music  -breathes  more  life  into  us  than  a  picture. 
If  in  this  respect  the  ear  has  an  adVantage  over  the  eye, 
the  eye  being  more  removed  from  feeling,  is  nearer  to 
thought.  We  compare  truth  with  light ;  a  prophet  is  a 
seer.  Truth  illuminates.  Ag«in,thunder  can  be  heard 
at  no  greater  distance  than  twenty  or  thirty  miles,  while 
lightning  may  be  seen  at  the  distance  of  from  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles;  but  what 
the  eye  seems  to  gain  in  this  respect,  it  loses  in  another, 
for  it  cannot  see  in  the  dark,  while  the  ear  hears  as  well  in 
the  night  as  at  any  other  time.  We  know  too,  that  in- 
struction must  be  addressed  to  the  ear,  and  that  a  single 
word  from  a  commanding  officer  will  animate  his  sol- 
diers far  more  than  a  mere  signal.  Hearing  makes  so- 
cial intercourse,  and  the  cultivation  of  mind  possible ; 
for  as  we  have  said,  it  has  a  direct  bearing  on  the  un- 
derstanding ;  as  what  we  hear,  we  naturally  desire  to 
understand.  Sight  has  more  reference  to  the  imagina- 
tion, to  hope  and  other  emotions,  hence  the  eye  so  easily 
betrays  these  emotions.  The  eye  was  the  sense  appeal- 
ed to  by  the  pictures  and  statues  of  Polytheism  ;  in 
Monotheism,  it  is  the  ear  ;  Lawgivers,  Prophets,  and  the 
Savior  addressed  themselves  to  it. 

It  has  been  often  asserted,  that  one  sense  can  be  sub- 
stituted for  another,  but  this  is  a  mistake.  One  born 
blind  can  never  get  an  idea  of  color  and  its  specific  dif- 
ferences, however  nice  his  sense  of  feeling  may  be. 
The  senses  may  aid  each  other;  the  smell,  for  ex- 
ample, assists  the  taste ;  when  we  are  hungry  and 
smell  food,  we  anticipate  the  pleasure  of  eating  it. 
With  most  animals  the  nose  and  mouth  form  almost  one 
organ.  Feeling  aids  the  sight,  and  sight  frequently  the 
ear,  when  we  turn  to  see  whence  a  report  reached  us. 


SEJLP-CONSCIOUSNESS.  193 

The  forms  in  which  aloiie  we  can  perceive  objects  of 
sense  are  those  of  space  and  time.  The  former  being 
extensive,  is  external,  the  latter  protensive,  is  internal. 
Things  in  space  exist  contemporaneously  as  the  numer- 
ous stars  of  the  firmament ;  things  in  time  succeed  each 
other,  and  time  is  itself,  its  own  succession.  Whatever 
is  in  space,  must  assume  in  its  form  the  dimensions  of 
space.  These  are  length,  breadth,  and  depth.  Worms 
and  serpents  are  long ;  fish  and  beetles  are  broad  or 
flat ;  and  all  the  mammalia  are  voluminous.  Time  is 
divided  into  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future.  What- 
ever is  in  it  must  belong  to  one  of  these  divisions.  Now 
we  say,  all  that  is  in  time  and  space  may  be  perceived 
by  one  or  another  sense,  but  space  and  time  themselves, 
are  inaccessible  to  the  senses  ;  the  past,  for  instance,  is 
one  of  the  divisions  of  time,  but  neither  the  eye  nor  the  - 
ear  can  perceive  that  which  no  longer  exists.  The  fu- 
ture, as  yet,  is  not,  and  consequently  cannot  impress  the 
senses.  So  it  is  with  the  geometrical  line — it  is  not  tan- 
gible like  a  ribbon  or  string,  but  can  only  be  seen  by 
the  eye  of  the  mind,  as  the  geometrical  point  cannot  be 
felt  by  the  finger  like  the  point  of  a  needle. 

OF  ATTENTION. 

We  have  seen  that  feelings  and  sensations  are  in 
themselves  indistinct  and  confused,  and  that  though 
they  are  the  beginning  of  all  knowledge,  yet  knowledge 
cannot  be  produced  by  them  alone.  This  is  manifest 
from  the  fact,  that  while  animals  feel  and  have  sensations 
like  ourselves,  they  have  no  knowledge  or  science. 
That  by  which  distinction  and  clearness  is  produced  in 
the  feelings  is  attention.  It  is  the  basis  of  all  knowledge, 
and  even  of  self-consciousness.  Without  it,  we  could 
neither  perceive  accurately,  nor  remember  well,  nor  take 
cognizance  of  our  own  perceptions.  So  when  we  are 
deeply  engaged  in  meditation,  we  may  meet  an  intimate 
acquaintance,  look- in  his  face,  and  yet  pass  him  by 
without  being  conscious  of  knowing  him.  Persons 
employed  in  iron  works,  take  no  notice  of  the  noise 
around  them,  but  converse  as  if  all  were  silent :  and  in 

25 


194  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

the  field  of  battle,  amidst  the  thunder  of  cannon,  gener- 
als will  listen  to  the  report  of  an  oiSicer  as  if  not  a 
breeze  of  the  air  were  stirring.  This  they  can  do  as 
all  will  say,  because  they  pay  no  attention  to  the  noise 
around  them.  Hence  it  is  correct  to  say,  that  without 
attention,  nothing  exists  for  the  mind  of  man.  Without 
attention  we  may  think  and  have  no  thoughts,  for  our 
thinking  will  be  only  a  kind  of  dreaming  or  reverie  : 
without  attention  we  may  travel  for  years,  yet  gain  no 
wisdom ;  we  may  be  surrounded  by  the  choicest  pro- 
ductions of  art  and  discover  no  beauty.  Attention 
therefore  deserves  our  notice,  and  we  shall  inquire : 
What  activity/  of  mind  is  called  attention  ? 

To  understand  Attentiori  fully,  we  must  consider  it 
first,  as  it  is  voluntary  and  as  we  are  conscious  of  it,  and 
secondly,  as  it  is  neither  voluntary  nor  conscious,  but 
as  it  precedes  all  the  other  mental  faculties,  and  is  ac- 
tive in  the  child,  which  is  as  yet  neither  conscious  of 
the  world  nor  of  itself: 

1.  Attention  in  general,  and  as  it  exists  in  mature 
persons,  is  that  activity  by  which  the  mind  decides  to 
turn  for  a  time,  from  every  thing  else,  and  direct  itself 
to  a  particular  object.  It  differs  from  observation,  for 
this  has  an  external  object,  and  its  aim  is,  to  ascertain 
the  nature  of  this  object  and  its  relation  to  others.  Ob- 
servation pre-supposes  and  requires  attention.  Again, 
attention  differs  from  judging,  or  thinking,  for  judgment 
likewise  has  objects,  which  it  compares  with  each  other. 
Attention  is  only  the  activity  of  mind,  by  which  it  re- 
solves to  fixitself  uponasingle  object ;  it  is  therefore  im- 
possible without  will — yet  it  may  be  drawn  forth  in  vari- 
ous ways.  The  novelty  or  contrast  of  things,  the  pleasant 
or  unpleasant  manner  in  which  they  affect  us,  or  the 
interest  which  from  any  cause  we  take  in  them,  may 
serve  to  excite  it.  So  one  sense  will  elicit  the  attention 
of  another — as,  when  we  feel  something  crawling  under 
our  fingers,  our  eyes  involuntarily  turn  towards  it,  to 
see  what  it  is :  or  if  we  hear  a  gun  discharged  behind 
us,  we  turn  to  see  whence  the  report  came.  The  eye 
also  directs  the  ear.  An  officer  in  glittering  uniform, 
riding  up  and  down  before  his  soldiers,  who  change 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS,  196 

their  position  at  every  word  he  speaks,  attracts  the  at- 
tention of  the  ear.  Or  a  preacher  of  dignified  exterior, 
appears  for  the  first  time  before  us  in  the  pulpit;  the 
eyes  of  all  watch  his  motions,  and  the  ear  is  ready  to 
catch  his  words.  Interest  in  a  thing  will  call  forth  the 
attention — the  musician  will  easily  be  attracted  by  any 
thing  concerning  the  life  of  a  Mozart  or  Beethoven,  a 
Weber  or  Bellini;  or  by  any  of  their  compositions. 
The  psychologist  discovers  beauties  in  Shakspeare,  that 
many  readers  pass  without  perceiving.  Manifold  in- 
deed are  the  sources  of  attention,  and  it  would  lead  us 
far  to  mention  all  of  them.  Yet  we  must  add  one 
more,  and  this  is  the  will  or  resolution ;  it  is  easy  to 
pay  attention,  where  interest  or  inclination  urge  us  to 
do  so  ;  but  such  attention  has  no  moral  value,  nor  is  it 
sufficient  for  the  study  of  a  science.  Every  science 
has  branches,  that  at  first  excite  no  interest  in  us  ;  we 
must  therefore  determine  by  our  will  to  attend  to  them. 
This  attention  alone  is  a  moral  one,  and  deserves  regard. 
Not  that  which  we  do  from  natural  impulse,  deserves 
credit,  but  that  which  receives  attention  by  virtue  of 
our  will,  even  though  it  be  against  our  inclinations. 
This  is  the  case,  when  accustomed  to  lighter  reading, 
we  for  the  first  time  take  a  scientific  book  into  our^ 
hands ;  we  read  a  few  pages  and  lay  it  aside — neither 
interest  nor  inclination  is  attracted,  and  we  pay  no  far- 
ther attention  to  it.  It  is  here  that  a  resolute  will  is 
necessary  to  urge  us  to  give  attention,  even  against  in- 
clination. 

The  objects  of  our  attention  may  be  various  at  the 
same  time.  The  captain  of  a  ship  in  a  storm  has  to 
,  direct  his  attention  to  many  things.  The  rope-dancer, 
who  while  he  walks  the  rope,  moves  a  cane  on  a  pivot, 
must  attend  both  to  the  cane  and  his  feet.  Caesar 
dictated  seven  letters  at  a  time.  But  however  different 
the  objects  to  which  it  may  be  directed,  attention  is  al- 
ways and  universally  the  same  identical  activity  of  the 
mind — as  the  nature  of  sight  or  hearing  is  never 
changed  by  the  objects  from  which  they  receive  their 
impressions,  but  remain  the  same  whencesoever  the  im- 
pression may  come. 


196  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

2.  It  is  more  difficult  to  comprehend  attention  in  its 
origin,  as  it  exists  in  the  child,  before  it  has  become  con- 
scious of  itself,  and  consequently  before  it  can  will.  At- 
tention as  a  state  of  mind,  is  always  voluntary  ;  but  at- 
tention as  it  must  necessarily  precede  will  and  every  other 
activity  of  mind,  cannot  be  voluntary.  This  has  been 
felt  by  all  psychologists,  and  some  have,  therefore,  tried 
to  explain  its  origin  by  saying  that  it  is  caused  by  a 
heightened  excitement  of  one  of  our  sensations  or  sen- 
ses. But  in  this  case  it  would  be  difterent  to  say  why 
animals,  especially  the  higher  kinds,  cannot  pay  atten- 
tion as  well  as  man  ;  yet  it  is  well  known  that  they  can- 
not do  this.  If  the  view  alluded  to  were  correct,  our  at- 
tention would  necessarily  be  proportional  in  its  strength 
to  our  impressions  ;  yet  we  know  that  very  strongimpres- 
sions  sometimes  draw  forth  very  little  attention,  while 
slight  ones  attract  much.  It  is  true,  that  sensations  attract 
attention  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  but  attention  does  not 
originate  in  them.     What  then  is  the  origin  of  attention  ? 

This  question  does  not  propose  to  ascertain  how  atten- 
tion is  drawn  forth  after  we  are  conscious  of  it,  after  we 
by  our  will  may  charge  ourselves  to  be  attentive  ; — its 
aim  is  to  examine  attention  as  that  activity  of  the  mind, 
which  brings  order  and  distinctness  into  our  chaotic 
feelings,  and  renders  consciousness  and  judgment,  and 
all  the  other  activities  of  mind  possible.  As  such  it  is  a 
spontaneous^  but  not  a  voluntary  activity,  and  precedes 
the  whole  development  of  mind,  as  the  plastic  power 
precedes  the  growth  of  the  plant. 

In  its  origin,  and  as  the  common  basis  of  all  the  other 
activities  of  mind,  attention  is  the  power  by  which 
mind  gives  itself  a  direction,  when  as  yet  it  has  none, 
and  is  yet  unconscious  of  itself.  When  we  look  into 
the  eye  of  a  child  during  the  first  weeks  of  its  existence, 
we  see  that  it  is  active,  constantly  moving,  but  we  see 
also  that  its  activity  has  no  direction.  The  light  falls 
upon  it,  images  of  surrounding  objects  are  reflected  on 
its  retina,  but  it  does  not  yet  see  them,  because  its  eye 
is  not  directed  to  them.  Thus  it  is  with  the  feelings, 
before  we  are  conscious  of  them,  they  are  of  course  ac- 
tive ;  they  possess  pain  and  pleasure,  as  they,  for  exam- 


SELF-COKSCIOUSNESS.  197 

pie,  precede  hunger  and  accompany  its  sfratification  : 
but  they  are  not  directed  to  any  particular  object,  and 
are  therefore  without  a  conscious  direction.  The  same 
is  the  case  with  the  whole  mind.  It  is  for  a  long  time 
in  a  state  of  unconsciousness,  and  while  in  this  state, 
has  no  direction.  For  when  it  is  conscious  of  an  object, 
it  must  be  directed  to  it :  as  long  as  it  is  not  conscious  of 
any  thing,  it  cannot  have  a  direction,  since  no  direction 
which  the  mind  takes  can  be  entirely  without  conscious- 
ness. The  developed  mind  is  then  a  self-conscious  ac- 
tivity. Attention  in  its  beginning,  is  spontaneous  ac- 
tivity of  the  mind  that  is  not  voluntary  ;  but  by  which 
only  choice  becomes  possible ;  it  is  that  activity  by 
which  mind,  which  as  yet  has  no  direction  but  gives  it- 
self one,  yet  noX  to  an  external  object,  but  to  itself  in 
its  first  stage  of  existence  that  is  to  feeling.  Reflecting  on 
feeling,  it  afterwards  reflects  on  the  causes  of  feeling. 
By  this  direction  of  the  mind  to  itself,  distinction  is 
produced  ;  one  feeling  is  separated  from  another,  sensa- 
tion from  sensation,  and  subject  from  object.  Were  it 
not  for  this  activity — the  name  given  it,  is  of  little  con- 
sequence, we  should  be  incapable  of  giving  conscious  and 
voluntary  attention  to  any  thing  ;  the  animal  has  not  the 
former  and  consequently  not  the  latter.  It  may  point  the 
ear  when  an  unusual  sound  excites  its  nerves  and  irri- 
tates the  muscles,  and  correctly  speaking,  it  cannot 
avoid  doing  so,  but  must  follow  the  direction  from 
which  a  strong  impression  reaches  it :  but  it  has  no 
mind  to  direct  to  these  sounds. 

The  difference  between  attention,  perception  and 
observation,  may  be  shown  in  the  following  manner. 
Attention  is  the  psychological  ground  of  observation, 
and  sensation  must  furnish  it  with  the  particular  ob- 
ject to  be  examined.  Our  sensations  and  observations 
are  limited  to  the  sphere  of  visible  objects  ;  we  cannot 
observe  things  to  which  the  senses  have  no  access :  but 
attention  has  no  such  limits.  The  last  star  that  can 
be  seen  by  the  eye,  does  not  arrest  and  limit  attention  ; 
it  may  direct  itself  farther,  for  its  activity  is  infinite. 
Sensation  and  observation  therefore  are  limited,  atten- 
tion unlimited.    Again,  sensation  is  always  of  necessity. 


198  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

We  cannot  see  without  light,  and  cannot  avoid  seeing 
when  light  is  present.  So  we  cannot  hear  without 
sound  and  must  hear  when  surrounded  by  noise.  But 
attention  is  a  free  activity — by  it  I  examine  what  I 
please  ;  analyze  and  re-unite  parts,  compare  them  with 
each  other,  and  determine  myself  to  turn  from  one  to 
another.  The  condition  of  all  thinking  and  willing,  is 
attention,  as  that  direction  which  is  not  determined^ 
but  which  mind  determines  itself  to  take.  Finally,  sen- 
sation contains  objects  and  contents  all  united,  attention, 
as  preceding  other  mental  activities,  separates  and  dis- 
tinguishes them  from  each  other ;  it  is  in  this  respect  an 
act  of  disruption,  by  which — and  this  deserves  notice — 
the  objects  of  our  sensations  are  placed  without  us,  in 
space  and  time  ;  by  which  their  contents  are  separated 
from  our  sensations,  and  our  sensations  from  ourselves^ 
It  is  judgment  in  its  lowest  stage,  and  judgment  is  at- 
tention in  its  most  refined  form.  As  long  as  we  have 
merely  a  sensation  of  light,  light  and  sight  are  yet  un- 
divided :  but  attention  will  enable  us  to  perceive  that 
the  one  may  be  where  the  other  is  not.  The  power 
perceiving  this  is  higher  than  that  of  sensation ;  it  is 
conception.  Thus  the  transition  from  sensation  to  con- 
ception is  formed  by  attention. 


199 


CHAPTER  II. 


CONCEPTION. 

In  commencing  this  chapter,  I  canndt  avoid  quoting 
the  words  of  Stewart ;  "  In  a  study  such  as  this,  sO  far 
removed  from  the  common  purposes  of  speech,  some 
latitude  may  perhaps  be  allowed  in  the  use  of  words, 
provided  only  we  define  accurately  those  we  employ, 
and  adhere  to  our  own  definitions." 

We  have  seen  that  attention  in  its  commencement  is 
an  activity  that  separates  the  objects  of  sensations,  from 
their  contents,  and  from  the  sensations  themselves.  We 
feel  a  smooth  surface  or  touch  something  rough. 
Smoothness  or  roughness  are  produced  in  our  feelings 
by  the  greater  or  less  affection  of  the  senses  ;  they  are 
therefore  felt  as  being  in  ourselves.  By  attention,'how- 
ever,  we  transfer  them  into  the  object  and  pronounce 
them  its  qualities.  As  such  they  exist  no  longer  in  our- 
selves, in  our  senses,  but  in  the  object  that  is  in  space  and 
time.  Seeing  things  as  contained  in  space  and  time,  we 
do  not  merely  see  them  with  the  eye  of  sense,  but  with 
the  eye  of  the  mind  ;  our  seeing  them  is  accompanied 
by  consciousness,  it  is  an  intellectual,  not  a  merely  sensu- 
al sight  by  the  senses.  To  distinguish  this  seeing  as 
accompanied  by  consciousness,  from  the  mere  sensa- 
tion, we  may  call  it  an  intellectual  perception.  It  is  the 
same  with  sensation,  and  differs  from  it  only  by  seeing 
its  objects  in  space  and  time,  and  by  being  conscious  of 
them.     The  example  of  the  blind  man  to  whom  Chesel- 


200  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

den  gave  sight  may  be  recollected  here,  but  another  in- 
stance may  serve  to  make  the  above  still  more  clear. 
The  child  before  it  is  attentive  undoubtedly  has  sensa- 
tions ;  it  sees,  hears,  feels,  and  smells.  But  it  does  not 
yet  distinguish  the  objects  and  contents  of  its  sensations 
from  the  sensations  themselves ;  it  does  not  separate 
them  from  each  other.  It  sees,  for  instance,  the  table  in 
the  room,  but  runs  against  it  and  hurts  itself;  it  sees  the 
precipice  and  does  not  shun  it;  it  sees  the  moon  and 
stretches  its  little  hands  to  seize  it.  Why  does  it  so  ? 
Because  all  it  sees,  rests  yet  undivided  on  the  retina  of 
its  eye  ;  but  no  sooner  does  its  mind  reflect  on  its  feel- 
ings, than  it  will  be  induced  by  them  to  reflect  on  the 
objects  which  called  them  forth,  and  thus  learn  to  dis- 
tinguish. This  is  not  yet  an  act  of  judgment ;  chil- 
dren in  their  infancy,especially  before  they  have  become 
conscious  of  themselves,  do  not  judge.  When  the  child 
therefore  no  longer  runs  against  objects,  but  shuns 
them ;  when  it  no  longer  sees  things  only  with  its  bodi- 
ly eye,  but  perceives  them  as  they  co- exist  in  space,  or 
as  they  succeed  each  other  in  time,  when  it  sees  them 
with  its  mind, — then  the  child  unconsciously  and  yet 
freely  has  made  distinctions  by  virtue  of  that  abstract 
attention,  which  is  represented  above  as  theorigin  of  all 
attention.  When  I  approach  a  large  city  for  the  first 
time  and  view  it  from  a  neighboring  eminence,  it  ap- 
pears like  a  confused  mass  of  houses  :  if  after  examining 
it  I  see  the  houses  and  streets  in  their  regular  arrange- 
ment, my  sight  of  it  is  no  longer  merely  bodily,  but 
mental.  Orif  we  hear  music  below  our  windows  while 
asleep,  we  So  not  hear  the  melody  or  harmony,  but  only 
sounds.  We  awake  and  a  feeling  is  excited.  We  re- 
flect upon  it,  that  is  our  mind  is  directed  to  it  and  tries 
to  discover  what  is  going  on  in  it,  and  thus  by  it,  is  led 
to  attend  to  the  sounds,  and  to  discover  the  melody  in 
the  sounds,  as  they  fall  upon  the  ear.  This  whole  pro- 
cess from  feeling  to  perception  may  be  very  rapid,  and 
in  most  cases  may  not  be  at  all  noticed  by  us.  Yet 
though  its  single  stages  may  melt  into  each  other,  they 
must  always  be  passed  through.  These  few  examples, 
it  is  hoped,  will  sufficiently  show  that  there  is  a  differ- 


SELF-CaNSCIOUSNESS.  201 

ence  between  seeing  a  thing  only  with  the  bodily  eye 
and  seeing  it  as  contained  in  space  and  time. 

But  though  things  are  seen,  as  they  exist  in  space 
and  time,  though  they  are  no  longer  present  in  the  sen- 
ses but  separated  from  them,  we  must  be  able  to  repre- 
sent them  to  ourselves,  and  this  is  the  power  of  concep- 
tion. This  differs  from  all  the  preceding  activities  we 
have  considered  and  grows  forth  from  them.  When 
what  has  been  present  to  our  sensations  and  been  seen 
by  the  eye  of  the  mind,  is  united  or  formed  into  an 
ijnage  and  received  back  into  the  mind,  we  have  a  con- 
ception. An  illustration  or  two  will  make  this  more 
clear.  When  I  name  salt,  every  one  will  understand 
what  I  mean,  for  he  bears  its  image  in  his  mind.  To 
form  this  image  he  must  have  united  several  sensations 
into  one.  He  must  have  tasted  its  sharpness,  have  5ee» 
its  whiteness,  have  felt  its  hardness  and  angular  form, 
and  then  uniting  these  sensations  and  perceiving  them 
to  be  qualities  of  salt,  he  forms  aa  image  of  it,  which  is 
received  into  the  mind  by  conception.  Or  when  the 
child,  passing  through  a  fair,  exclaims  for  joy  on  per- 
ceiving a  wooden  horse  like  its  own,  then  it  has  not 
only  a  full  image  of  its  own  horse,  but  recognizes  this 
image  in  the  one  which  it  perceives  in  the  fair. 

The  contents  of  conception  are  those  of  our  former 
sensations ;  their  objects  were,  as  we  have  seen  trans- 
ferred into  space  and  time,  and  now  they  are  received 
back  into  the  mind,  not  as  they  really  exist,  but  by  their 
images.  By  these  images,  which  are  wholly  ideal,  a 
relation  is  brought  about  between  ourselves  and  the 
things  of  which  they  are  the  images,  for  while  the  ob- 
jects exist  without  us,  or  in  space  and  time,  their  im- 
ages are  within  us.  What  then  are  we  to  understand 
by  an  image  7 

1.  There  are  many  images  which  are  no  concep- 
tions ;  as  when  the  infant  is  held  before  a  looking  glass, 
its  image  is  reflected,  but  it  does  not  notice  it.  Here  is 
an  image  in  the  mirror,  but  not  in  the  mind  of  the  in- 
fant. This  image  may  be  perceived  by  other  persons, 
and  they  may  form  a  conception  of  it ;  but  it  will  be  in 
the  mirror  whether  seen  or  not.     So  when  a  tree  stands 

26 


202  "      '         SELF-CONSCiOUSNESS. 

near  clear  and  transparent  waters,  its  image  will  be  re- 
flected by  them  ;  tliis  image  rests  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  hut  it  is  not  a  conception,  until  our  eye  has  seen, 
and  our  mind  perceived  it.  The  image  of  our  mind 
must  be  gradually  formed  ;  the  object  of  which  it  is 
the  image,  must  have  been  felt,  it  must  have  been  sepa- 
rated'.from  our  senses  by.  that  act  of  disruption  before 
mentioned,  and  transferred,  from  our  senses  into  the  ob- 
ject, and  thus  received  back  by  us.  Without  sensation 
then  we  could  forni  no  image  of  an  external  object,  and 
those  who  are  of  opinion  that  Homer,  whose  works  are 
replete  with  imagery  was  blind,  must  have  a  film  over 
their  own  eyes.  Milton  and  Ossian  were  blind,  but  had 
sight  in  their  youth. 

2.  The  image  is  therefore  the  same  as  the  thing  which 
it  represen^ts,  and  yet  there  is  a  difference  between  them. 
The  thing  is  not  the  image,  for  it  exists  in  space  or 
tinie.  Thus  the  zebra  is  the  object  of  which  I  have  an 
image  ;  and  this  is  made  up  of  life,  feelings,  sensations, 
blood,  nerves,  limbs.  All  of  them  have  reality,  they  ex- 
ist in  the  animal,  as  they  do  not  in  the  image  we  have 
formed  of  it.  On  the  other  hand  again,  the  image  is 
the  same  as  the  object,  for  it  cannot  be  without  it,  and 
unless  it  include,  what  the  object  includes,  it  is  not  its 
true  image.  We  see  here  two  views  of  the  same  sub- 
ject that  are  in  direct  opposition  to  each  other.  Neither 
of  them  is  wholly  correct :  the  image  is  and  is  not  the 
object.  It  is  not  the  object,  for  the  object  has  reality, 
independent  of  the  image  and  of  man  ; — it  would  ex- 
ist)  whether  we  perceive  it  or  not.  So  its  contents  are 
all  of  them  real  qualities  that  exist  independent  of  our 
conceptions.  Again,  it  is  the  object,  for  it  could  not  be 
found  without  it ;  but  it  is  the  object,  not  as  it  exists  in 
space  and  time,  as  it  is  real — it  is  the  ideal  object.  The 
imoLge  has  therefore  the  same  contents  as  the  object, 
with  this  difference,  the  one  has  them  as  they  exist  in 
the  mind  ideally^  the  other  as  they  are  in  the  material 
thing,  really.  We  would  say,  therefore  :  by  the  power 
of  conceiving,  the  contents  of  an  object,  and  the  object 
itself  become  contents  of  our  conceptions  or  images. 

3.  Though  the  image  is  the  ideal  object  and  fully 


SELF-CONSeiOUSNESS.  203 

represents  the  latter,  yet  it  is  less  complete  than  the  ob- 
ject represented  by  it.  When  we  first  see  and  examine 
a  thing,  all  its  parts,  whether  essential  or  not,  impress 
themselves  npon  ns  ;  but  these  nnessential  parts  would 
burden  without  benefiting  us.  Conception,  therefore, 
refines  these  contents  and  thrusts  out  what  is  not  neces- 
sary to  give  a  faithful  image  of  the  nature  of  the  thing. 
In  examining  a  beautiful  statye,  I  observe  every  little 
thing  about  it,  and  even  such  marks  as  do  not  form  a 
necessary  part  of  it.  When  I  leave  the  statue,  I  take  its 
image  with  me,  but  the  accidental  circumstances  under 
which  I  saw  it,  and  all  that  does  not  strictly  pertain  to 
it,  I  suffer  to  be  left  out  of  the  image.  The  image  of  a 
beautiful  person  has  impressed  itself  deeply  upon  my 
mind  ;  but  the  unpleasant  voice  or  the  large  foot  are  no 
longer  included  in  it.  And  as  the  image  in  the  course 
of  time  grows  less  complete,  so  it  becomes  more  general. 
Every  image  is  that  of  a  single  object^  and  is  consequently 
itself  single  ;  but  the  person  that  has  the  image,  as  he 
sees  one  object,  sees  many  others  of  the  same  kind,  and 
thus  of  the  whole  forms  o.  general  image.  I  have  the 
image  of  a  certain  rose,  which  I  saw  in  the  hand  of  a 
friend  ;  this  rose  has  faded — but  I  have  seen  many 
other  roses  like  it,  and  the  image  of  the  former  rose, 
however  well  defined  and  accurate  it  may  have  been, 
will  at  length  become  so  general^  that  it  would  repre- 
sent all  roses  as  well  as  it  represents  this  one. 

Though  perception  through  the  senses  is  the  general 
source  of  all  images,  so  that  a  poet  who  had  never  seen  a 
sunset  would  be  unable  to  depict  it,  yet  it  is  not  necessary 
that  all  the  images  in  our  minds,  should  have  originated 
in  our  own  sensations.  The  descriptions  of  travelers 
are  a  rich  source  of  images  ;  yet  unless  we  have  seen 
something  similar  to  what  is  described  to  us,  we  cannot 
form  a  conception  of  it. 

Of  these  images  the  mind  is  full,  and  as  one  after 
another  enters  the  mind,  many  must  be  rendered  dim 
and  indistinct  by  those  which  are  newer  and  more  viv- 
id, and  sink  as  others  rise  to  consciousness.  Thus 
they  would  be  lost  to  us,  like  jewels  dropped  into  the 
ocean,  if  the  mind  had  not  the  power  to  recall  and  re- 


204  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

vive  them.  It  is  the  mind,  and  not  a  Ufeless  receptacle 
in  which  these  images  sink  ;  the  self-conscious  mind, 
therefore,  retains  them  as  it  formed  them,  and  though 
they  are  not  present  to  consciousness,  they  are  not  lost. 
If  they  have  ever  existed  in  the  mind  with  clearness 
and  vividness,  with  order  and  accuracy,  they  will  never 
be  forgotten,  though  their  colors  may  fade.  As  the  vase 
filled  with  perfume  will  retain  it  as  long  as  it  exists,  so 
the  mind  will  be  aiFected  by  all  its  past  images,  and 
must  be  able  to  summon  them  to  re-appear,  and  this  its 
capacity  is  called 

FANCY. 

Fancy  is  a  higher  stage  of  conception.  Its  images 
are  those  of  the  latter,  perfectly  free  from  all  accidental 
aidditions,  from  every  appearance  of  impressions  by 
sense.  This  will  appear  from  the  following — an  image 
may  exist  in  the  mind  independent  of  the  perception  by 
sense  of  the  object ;  the  image  and  perception  may, 
therefore,  be  separated,  for  though  the  image  may  disap- 
pear from  the  sphere  of  consciousness,  the  mind  has  the 
power  to  recall  it,  and  has  this  power  without  being  re- 
minded of  the  image  by  the  sight  of  the  object.  The 
image  is,  therefore,  freed  from  all  dependence  on  the 
natural  object,  or  the  perception  of  it.  It  is  a  true  con- 
ception, by  which  the  mind  can  represent  a  thing  or  ob- 
ject to  itself,  whenever  and  wherever  it  chooses,  and 
however  distant  in  space  or  time  may  be  the  object  to 
be  represented.  Again,  the  recognition  of  the  image  in 
the  object,  or  of  the  object  in  the  image,  is  an  act  of  suh- 
sumption.  For  when  after  we  have  a  conception  of  a 
thing,  we  recognize  it  as  soon  as  it  presents  itself  again, 
we  refer  the  image  to  our  perception  of  the  thing,  and 
thus  recognize  the  one  in  the  other.  By  this  recogni- 
tion, the  image  in  our  mind  may  be  corrected,  no  less 
than  our  perception  of  the  thing  may  be  guided  by  the 
image  previously  formed  of  it.  For  example,  the  image 
of  a  beautiful  landscape  remains  in  my  mind  ;  traveling 
the  night,  I  approach  the  same  scenery  without  know- 
ing where  I  am — on  awaking  I  at  once  feel  as  if  the 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  205 

scenery  were  known  to  me ;  I  observe  more  closely, 
recognize  in  the  scenery  the  image  I  had  before  formed 
of  it,  and  thus  confirm  my  image  no  less  by  my  percep- 
tion than  this  by  my  image.  Or,  a  beautiful  melody 
slumbers  in  my  mind ;  I  have  neither  heard  nor  thought 
of  it  for  years  ;  when  unexpectedly  it  is  played  in  my 
hearing,  I  do  not  at  first  recognize  it,  though  it  sounds 
familiar  to  me.  I  listen  with  the  ear  of  the  mind  and 
joyfully  salute  in  the  melody  an  old  acquaintance.  Let 
us  now  inquire,  First,  How  this  reproduction  of  past 
images  is  possible  ?     And  secondly,  What  are  its  laws  ? 

1.  All  images  as  we  have  before  said,  remain  in  the 
mind  ;  they  are  numerous,  and  of  very  opposite  natures. 
Yet  they  are  not  isolated  ;  but  all  are  connected  by  a 
common  tie  ;  this  tie  is  our  personal  consciousness.  A 
thread  may  connect  the  most  beautiful  pearls ;  but  each 
pearl  is  unconscious  of  the  others,  and  the  thread  knows 
nothing  of  the  treasures  it  serves  to  unite.  But 
the  /  which  connects  these  images,  knows  of  all  of 
them,  predicates  them  as  its  contents,  and  thus  unites 
them  with  each  other  and  with  itself.  Though  many 
of  these  images  disappear  from  present  consciousness, 
the  /  which  keeps  all  in  a  relation  to  each  other,  and 
holds  them  as  its  treasures,  can  at  any  time  dive  into 
its  own  depths  and  raise  the  seemingly  lost  image  to 
light.  And  this  reproduction  is  not  connected  with 
much  labor,  but  the  images  appear  spontaneously,  like 
the  chair  of  Homer  that  moved  of  itself  wherever  its 
owner  wished  it ;  or  like  Solomon's  ring  which  pre- 
sented a  new  assemblage  of  spirits  with  every  turn. 

It  js  then  our  personal  consciousness  that  includes  and 
governs  the  images  of  the  mind.  Yet  there  are  some,  that 
seem  to  force  themselves  upon  us  against  our  will,  and 
how  much  soever  we  may  desire  to  repel  them.  Shak- 
speare  has  illustrated  this  very  forcibly  in  his  Macbeth. 

2.  The  images  in  the  mind  are  related  to  each  other 
by  the  /,  which  formed  them  from  the  materials  fur- 
nished by  the  sensations,  and  which  possesses  and  keeps 
them  all  connected.  Hence  as  a  general  rule  it  may  be 
stated,  that  as  diiferent  images  are  subjectively  united 
in  the  mind,  so  they  will  present  themselves  in  this  re- 


# 


206  SELF-COXSCIOUSNESS. 

lation  to  each  otlier  when  one  of  them  is^  reproduced. 
This  is  tlie  principal  basis  of  the  association  of  ideas, 
w^d  on  it  rest  all  its  laws.  These  we  will  consider  in 
a  few  words  :      .   . 

And  first,  When;  different  images  have  been  pro- 
duced by  diiTerent  senses  at  the  same  time,  the  one  will 
be  recalled  to  the  mind  vyhcn  the  other  makes  its  ap- 
pearance. We  have  spent  a  pleasant  hour  in  agreea- 
ble company;  the  room  was  filled  with  delicate  per- 
fumes, and  we  were  dchghled  by  the  fragrance.  When- 
ever we  recall  ilie  fra2:rance,  the  imno-es  of  the  persons 
we  then  saw,  the  order  in  which  they  stood  or  sat,  and 
even  the  conversation  that  took  place,  will  be  vividly 
recollected. 

Secondly.  Tlie  images  in  the  mind  have  their  objects 
in  space.  They  exist  together — none  is  isolated,  but  the 
beautiful  cathedral  is  surrounded  by  houses,  streets  and 
open  squares.  When  the  image  of  the  cathedral  rises, 
our  fancy,  if  it  be  energetic  and  vivid,  will  reproduce  the 
images  of  all  the  objects  surrounding  the  cathedral. 
Any  one  who  has  seen  the  City  Hall  of  New-York,  and 
preserved  an  image  of  it.  will  also  have  transferred  to 
his  mind,  the  su wounding  space  as  the  common  plat- 
form of  marty  other  objects  ;  when  at  a  distance  from 
New- York  he  recalls  the  image  of  the  Hall,  the  image 
of  the  space  around  with  all  its  objects  will  present 
themselves,  the  park  with  its  iron  rtnlings,  the  broad 
streets  encompassmg  the  park,  and  the  fine  buildings 
lining  the  streets,  &c. 

Thirdly.  Space  remains  always  the  same,  though  what 
in  it  may  change.  Time  is  but  change  and  succession. 
The  place  where  old  Athens  stood,  still  remains;  the 
time  when  it  first  stood  there  is  gone  forever.  Yet  we 
rarely  remember  a'  place  without  remembering  the 
particular  time  when  we  saw  it.  The  images,  tlie  ob- 
jects of  which  are  in  time,  must,  like  the  latter,  succeed 
each  other,  so  that  the  image  of  one  thing  is  followed 
and  preceded  by  other  images.  In  this  connection  im- 
ages likewise  exist  in  our  mind,  and  one  revives  all  of 
them.  We  recall  the  image  of  a  dying  friend,  and  all 
connected  with  it  rise  to  view :  we  see  his  suffering  face, 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNISS.  207 

the  positions  in  which  he  lay — and  then  his  funeral  pro- 
cession. Persons  of  hvely  but  uncultivaied  fancy,  will  so 
fill  their  narrations  of  past  events  with  accidental  circum- 
stances, that  it  is  often  difficult  to  keep  the  train  of  their 
ideas.  On  the  whole,  images  the  objects  of  which  were  in 
time,  present  themselves  more  easily  than  those  the  ob- 
jects of  which  are  in  space.  It  is  likewise  more  difficult 
to  represent  the  latter  to  others  than  the  former.  This 
Homer  knew,  when,  instead  of  describing  the  shield  of 
Achilles,  he  leads  us  totheplace  where  it  is  manufactured, 
and  shows  us  part  after  part  as  it  is  fabricated.  Thus  he 
communicates  in  succession,  what  he  would  otherwise 
have  had  to  depict  simultaneously.  Hence  too,  poetry 
is  more  generally  attractive  than  painting. 

Again,  Images  elicit  each  other  by  contrast  or  re- 
semblance. An  Otaheitan  youth  called  the  falling 
flakes  of  snow,  white  rain.  A  chief  of  the  Otaheitans 
called  a  repeating  watch,  a  little  suri.  ^  In  both  in- 
stances, two  images  presented  themselves  together, 
while  they  had  onl^  SLsingle  mark  in  common  with 
each  other.  The^rnage  of  a  fine  commodious  rail-road 
car  may  readily  call  up  that  of  an  old  uncomfortable 
rattling  stage-coach.  Images  that  contrast,  at  the  same 
time  complete,  and  thus  render  each  other  more  vivid. 
Again,  The  law  of  cause  and  effect  brings  images  in 
connection.  Whoever  thinks  of  a  Gothic  building,  will 
involuntarily  perceive  in  his  mind  the  taste  of  the  age 
when  Gothic  architecture  prevailed,  the  manners,  laws, 
habits,  religion,  all  of  which  harmonized,  and  were  ac- 
tive in  producing  this  noble  style  of  architecture. 

Finally,  Many  concrete  images  are  brought  in  con- 
nection by  a  general  one,  which  comprises  them  as  the 
whole  does  its  parts.  Every  image  is  at  first  as  con- 
crete as  the  thing  of  which  it  is  the  image ;  it  is  therefore 
single,  occupying  a  certain  place,  and  in  a  certain  time. 
But  when  once  we  have  conceived  it,  and  then  per- 
ceive it  in  ourselves  we  gradually  free  it,  as  we  have 
stated,  of  its  individual  peculiarities,  and  thus,  ab- 
stracting from  them,  we  form  an  image  that  is  more 
general.  I  have,  for  instance,  the  imago  of  a  mocking- 
bird ;  as  such  it  is  a  single  image,  in  which  plumnge, 


208  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

bill,  eyes  and  wings,  are  vividly  represented.  Sa  of  the 
Baltimore  Oriole  ;  its  colors,  and  lively  motions.  But 
abstracting  from  colors  motions,  bill,  (fee.  I  retain 
an  image,  which  is  that  of  birds  in  general,  and  not 
of  a  single  individual,  so  that  when  it  presents  itself, 
theiraages  of  many  species,  a&eagles,  ravens,  doves,  &c., 
will  be  suggested,  and  in  number  proportional  to  my 
knowledge  of  ornithology.  So  every  one  has  a  general 
image  of  all  butterflies,  which  he  has  gained  from  indi- 
vidual ones.  Having  it  once,  he  is  by  it  reminded  of  the 
different  classes  of  butterflies.  The  image  of  a  general 
character,  loses  more  or  less  its  reference  to  the  single  ob- 
ject of  which  it  is  the  image,  and  gains  a  more  direct  re- 
lation to  the  species,  yet  these  genera/  images  are  not  the 
same  as  the  classes  or  species  into  which  judgment  divides 
nature  ;  the  image  by  its  general  character,  however,  be- 
comes thus  still  more  free,  and  refined,  and  the  activity 
of  mind  we  have  called  conception  and  fancy,  are  ele- 
vated and  become 

IMAGINATION. 

Imagination.  We  must  ever  keep  in  view,  that 
mind  is  an  identical  life,  but  at  the  same  time  ex- 
isting in  diff"erent  organs,  which  have  been  called  facul- 
ties. The  comparison  of  the  life  of  mind  with  that  of 
a  tree,  may  be  once  more  noticed-  The  contents  of 
sensations  are  those  of  conception,  and  they  are  also 
those  of  imagination.  As  contained  in  imagination, 
however,  they  are  less  sensuous  and  more  general  in 
their  character,  and  are,  therefore,  less  limited  in  extent, 
and  leave  us  more  free  in  their  application.  Imagination 
is  consequently  a  freer  activity  than  conception.  The 
latter  takes  originally  all  its  images  as  they  peel  off 
from  their  objects ;  fancy  calls  them  forth  from  the 
depths  of  the  mind  in  certain  connections  and.combina- 
tions  ;  imagination  imites  them  freely^  independent  of 
the  laws  of  association.  There  is  another  difference 
between  imagination  and  conception,  which  deserves 
ipention  here.  The  image  of  conception,  as  has  been 
stated,  is  not  exactly  the  same  as  its  object  j  for  the  ob- 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  209 

ject  has  reality  independent  of  the  image.  The  images 
of  imagination  on  the  other  hand,  are  the  free  produc- 
tions of  imagination,  and  have  no  existence  in  reality, 
as  for  example,  the  image  of  the  centaur  :  these  images 
of  imagination  are  therefore  truly  tlie  objects  themselves. 
This  independence  of  the  mind,  in  uniting  the  most 
different  conceptions,  begins  to  exhibit  itself  at  least  in 
some  degree  in  fancy.  Every  conception  may  become 
the  center,  from  which  1  may  summon  many  others  to 
appear.  What  is  there  to  prevent  me,  when  I  think  of 
the  cathedral  at  Strasburg,  from  directing  my  attention 
to  Erwin  of  kSteinbach,  its  celebrated  architect,  or  to 
Goethe's  treatise  on  it,  or  to  the  misconception  of 
Gothic  architecture  which  so  long  prevailed.  So  I 
may  turn  to  the  guild  of  architects  of  the  middle  ages, 
to  masonry  or  mysteries  in  general.  Or  I  may  direct 
my  thoughts  to  the  stone  of  which  the  cathedral  is 
built ;  to  its  pictures,  its  bells  ;  the  French  Revolution 
that  once  threatened  its  destruction,  or  Alsace  of  which 
it  is  the  ornament.  Now  if  law  is  the  power  which  is 
the  union  of  the  manifold,  their  common  soul  and  which 
unites  the  individuals  and  brings  them  in  relation  to 
each  other,  upholding  order  and  regularity,  what  is  the 
laio  in  the  above  transitions  ?  Fancy  is  undoubtedly 
more  free  in  associating  conceptions  or  ideas,  than  those 
who  place  so  great  a  stress  upon  the  laws  of  associa- 
tion, or  suggestion  as  some  prefer,  would  be  willing  to 
admit.  Not  ten  nor  twenty  laws  would  fully  show  the 
nature  of  association,  for  as  the  fancy  of  a  person  is 
more  or  less  vivid  and  distinct,  more  or  less  active  or 
inert, — so  it  will  combine  more  or  less  freely.  Why 
may  not  the  idea  of  substance  call  forth  that  of  acci- 
dence? or  that  of  phenomena  the  idea  of  cause?  or 
that  of  end  the  idea  of  means  ?  It  is  certain  therefore, 
that  fancy  is  free  in  its  combinations,  and  more  so  when 
it  associates  different  ideas  by  its  own  power.  In  the 
latter  respect  it  rises  towards  imagination,  yet  it  is  not 
the  same,  for  fancy  is  only  reproductive,  while  imagina- 
tion more  free  is  productive.  The  richer  the  former,  the 
richer  the  latter.  To  define  imagination,  we  would  say, 
1.  It  is  the  activity  of  mind  which  with  ease  and  free- 
.27 


210  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

dom  unites  different  images  or  creates  new  ones,  having 
been  furnished  with  the  materials  for  them,  by  sensation 
and  conception.  Such  images  of  imagination  are  those 
of  Amazons,  Cyclops,  Syrens,  fairies,  elves,  giants  and 
dwarfs,  &;c.  These  images  cannot  be  seen  in  nature, 
they  are  therefore,  in  one  respect  new^  and  yet  the  parts 
of  which  they  consist,  are  furnished  by  sensation  or 
perception,  and  consequently  met  with  out  of  us. 

2.  Imagination  is  the  power  to  call  forth  images 
for  the  purpose  of  clothing  an  idea  or  thought  which 
arises  in  the  mind.  The  images  thus  called  forth 
may  be  variously  modified  to  render  them  appropriate 
vehicles  of  thought.  This  no  one  will  dispute  who 
is  aware  that  as  the  mind  constantly  grows  in  culti- 
vation, its  conceptions  must  likewise  become  more  cor- 
rect, so  that  as  often  as  they  are  reproduced,  they  will 
bear  the  impress  of  the  mind's  improvement.  Imagin-^ 
ation  then,  is  the  power  which  modifies  the  images 
07ice  received,  creates  7iew  ones  of  them,  and  gives 
them  contents  which  do  not  originally  belong  to 
them. 

Some  examples  will  show  this  more  satisfactorily: 
I  think  of  strength  ;  my  imagination  being  lively,  seeks 
for  an  image  by  which  to  express  it ;  it  takes  the  image 
of  the  lion,  places  its  thought  in  it,  and  thus  the  lion  be- 
comes the  symbol  of  strength.  Again,  the  idea  that  man 
if  left  to  himself,  is  without  any  knowledge  of  heaven- 
ly things  and  cannot  speak  concerning  them,  is  a  thought 
produced  by  reflection.  This  thought  imagination  de- 
sires to  represent  in  an  externcll  form.  It  therefore  cre- 
ates an  image  to  which  it  gives  it  as  its  contents.  The 
Egyptian  statue  of  Memnon  was  the  symbol  thus  cre- 
ated. It  was  made  of  marble,  its  face  turned  towards 
the  rising  sun,  and  it  gave  forth  lovely  sounds  when 
the  first  rays  fell  upon  it.  So  man  is  mute  and  dead 
till  heavenly  light  awakens  him.  Guido  represents  a 
pious  and  beautiful  virgin,  sitting  alone  at  her  needle  ; 
two  angels  attend  her.  What  does  this  mean  ?  Inno- 
cence and  dihgence  are  honored  by  heavenly  spirits. 

The  contents  placed  in  an  image,  may  be  a  number 
or  c^?/s^er  of  thoughts,  and  then  instead  of  one  we  must 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  211 

have  many  images.  When  connected  it  is  called  an  al- 
legory. The  thought  that  man  consists  of  soul  and 
body,  is  connected  with  the  idea,  that  whatever  he  is  in 
regard  to  intellect,  he  is  by  having  freed  himself  from 
his  animal  passions.  The  Egyptian  sphinx  is  an  alle- 
gorical representation  of  this  ;  in  it  the  head  of  a  woman 
grows  forth  and  rests  on  a  body  composed  of  parts  of 
different  animals,  mingled  with  each  other.  This 
means,  that  humanity, — here  represented  by  a  woman — 
must  by  its  own  power  emerge  from  the  dominion  ol 
animal  desires.  Or  Eros,  love^  sitting  upon  a  lion, 
strength^  guides  him  with  a  silken  cord,  moderation^ 
shows  that  love  softens  the  strongest.  Cerberus  with 
three  heads,  and  Argus  with  a  hundred  eyes,  express 
the  ideas  that  watchfulness  must  look  in  every  direc- 
tion. The  centaur  is  the  symbol  of  prudence,  swiftness, 
and  considerateness. 

Imagination  as  it  may  place  its  contents  in  the  works 
of  painting  and  sculpture,  may  also  express  them  by 
sounds  that  is  music,  and  words,  which  is  poetry.  A 
person  of  imagination,  not  only  feels  anxious  to  express 
his  thoughts  and  ideas  in  a  sensible  form,  but  his  feel- 
ings and  emotions  likewise.  Joy  and  grief,  pain  or 
pleasure,  fear  and  hope,  anxiety  and  expectation,  gayety 
and  melancholy  fill  the  breast  of  man,  and  go  and  come 
with  never-ceasing  changes.  The  greater  part  of  our 
inmost  feelings  and  most  tender  emotions,  do  not  become 
entirely  objective  to  ourselves,  but  are  grown  together 
with  the  heart  their  common  seat,  mysterious  and  not 
understood.  Images  have  their  objects  existing  in  reali- 
ty ;  the  images  of  imagination  though  they  are  not  real, 
may  be  made  to  assume  an  external  form,  and  thus  be- 
come objective  to  us  by  the  chisel  or  the  brush  ;  but  it 
is  utterly  impossible  to  represent  our  feelings  in  an  ex- 
ternal form,  or  to  convey  them  by  language.  For  the 
latter  is  also  intended  for  general  conceptions  only. 
The  medium  by  which  alone  we  can  make  a  represen- 
tation of  our  feelings  to  ourselves  and  others,  is  that  of 
musical  sound.  But  sounds  are  not  all  musical ;  the 
murmuring  of  brooks,  the  roaring  of  forests,  the  hum- 
ming of  bees,  the  whistling  of  the  wind,  and  the  song  of 


212  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

birds,  are  not  in  themselves  musical;  they  also  become 
so  in  relation  to  us,  after  we  place  feelings  with  which 
they  harmonize  in  them,  and  hear  the  feelings  expressed 
by  them.  What  is  it — if  this  slight  digression  may  be 
permitted, — that  interests  ns  in  the  mournful  sounds  of 
the  nightingale,  when  concealed  in  the  thicket,  she 
sends  forth  her  plaintive  notes,  that  sweetly  swelling 
fill  the  valley  and  touch  every  heart  ?  Is  it  not  that  we 
imagine  the  nightingale  giving  utterance  to  her  grief, 
as  we  would  to  ours,  in  song?  Does  not  the  Greek 
mythos  inform  us  that  she  is  grieved,  and  that  she 
breathes  forth  her  grief  in  melodious  smiles  ?  Suppose 
some  one  should  accurately  imitate  her,  should  we  af- 
ter discovering  it,  consider  this  imitation  attractive,  or 
the  sounds  musical  ?  Every  bird  that  sings,  expresses 
the  peculiar  feeling  of  its  own  existence,  by  its  peculiar 
note,  and  how  different  is  the  note  with  which  the 
mother  mourns,  when  a  mischievous  boy  has  stolen  her 
young,  from  those  with  which  she  calls  them,  and  those 
which  she  has  in  her  common  state  of  existence  ! 
Sounds  become  musical  also  by  their  richness,  clear- 
ness, fuUpess,  purity,  and  by  the  relation  of  the  differ- 
ent sounds  to  each  other,  by  rhythm,  time,  harmony 
and  melody,  by  their  connections,  transitions  and  vari- 
ous modifications. 

What  is  it  now,  that  makes  musical  sounds  susceptible 
of  representing  our  emotions  and  feelings  ?  Sounds  like 
feelings  cailnot  assume  a  shape  or  form  in  space ;  they  float 
only  in  time.  So  our  feelings  have  an  existence  in  time 
only,  not  in  space,  since  they  are  without  external  form 
and  visible  expression.  They  change  and  pass  away 
like  sounds ;  sounds,  therefore,  closely  resemble  feel- 
ings in  this  respect,  and  are  the  very  element  in  which 
they  may  live  and  move.  Hence  the  movements  of  mu- 
sic easily  enter  the  seat  of  feeling,  the  heart  and  its  emo- 
tions, and  as  while  we  listen,  consciousness  has  nothing 
external  to  engage  its  attention,  as  the  music  draws  its 
attention  to  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  it  becomes  merged 
in  them  and  is  borne  along  on  the  stream  of  expressive 
harmonies  and  lovely  melodies.  Thus  we  see  that  mu- 
sic is  £^n  excellent  medium  by  which  to  express  and  call 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  213 

forth  the  feelings.  Again,  as  harmonies  and  melodies 
affect  our  feelings  and  not  our  judgment  hke  paintings, 
statues,  (fee,  so  it  is  time  that  renders  sounds  in  their 
connection  mtisical,  and  that  affects  us  pleasantly.  For 
we  are  in  time  and  time  is  in  us  ;  and  so  sound  again 
rests  only  in  time.  Thus  we  and  sounds  have  a  com- 
mon element,  and  when  sounds  are  well  measured  and 
follow  each  other  in  order,  they  enter  into  our  feelings 
and  produce  the  same  rhythmical  motions  in  us.  Time 
is  the  first  element  of  music  ;  yet  no  animal  can  keep 
time,  neither  in  its  walknor  in  any  thing  it  does  ;  neith- 
er do  birds  keep  time  in  their  songs.  The  art  of  keep- 
ing time  belongs  to  man,  and  is  not  met  with  in  all  na- 
ture even  in  the  motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  which 
accelerate  and  retard  their  course ;  the  music  of  the 
spheres  must  therefore  differ  from  ours  in  this  respect. 

We  see  then  that  music  has  all  its  elements  in  com- 
mon with  ourselves.  In  it  we  do  not  hear  any  thing 
different  from  ourselves,  but  the  heart  hears  itself,  as  if 
the  light  in  its  purity  could  see  itself.  Time  is  common 
to  our  feelings  and  to  sound  ;  sounds  in  themselves  by 
their  purity  or  clearness,  softness  and  richness  accord 
with  particular  feelings,  like  interjections  and  exclama- 
tions ;  while  harmonies  and  melodies  unfold  our  joy 
and  grief  in  all  their  depth  and  fullness. 

But  imagination  does  not  only  place  o\x\ emotions  and 
feelings  in  music,  but  also  thoughts  and  conceptions. 
In  this  case  we  are  in  the  habit  of  saying,  music  accom- 
panies songs,  while  songs  are  themselves  already  music. 
Music  by  itself  and  music  as  an  accompaniment  differ 
only  in  their  contents  ;  the  former  has  feelings  for  its 
contents,  the  latter  conceptions.  Here  again  we  must 
distinguish.  For  the  musician  places  either  the  feeling 
which  has  been  produced  in  him  by  reading  a  poem,  in 
his  music,  or  his  desire  is  to  represent  by  music  concep- 
tions themselves.  In  the  former  case  the  composer 
studies  a  poem,  until  he  enters  fully  into  its  sprit,  and 
receives  an  impression  which  will  resemble  the  feeling 
under  the  influence  of  which  the  poet  composed  the 
piece.  He  then  will,  by  his  imagination,  place  this  im- 
pression or  feeling  in  sounds.  The  character  of  the  poem 


214  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

will  be  that  of  the  melody,  and  this  will  call  forth  sym- 
pathy in  the  hearts  of  the  hearers.  This  is  the  case  with 
Zelter's  beautiful  and  classical  compositions  to  Goethe's 
and  Schiller's  poems.  Zelter  says  himself  that  he, learn- 
ed thovse  pieces  by  heart,  studied  their  character,  gave 
himself  up  wholly  to  the  impression  received  from 
them,  and  swng  the  melody  in  his  mind. 

Haydn's  Creation,  on  the  other  hand,  Handel's  Mes- 
siah, Beethoven's  oratorios,  Mozart's  operas,  have  as 
their  contents,  conceptions  and  ideas  placed  in  them  by 
imagination.  These  composers  did  not  wish  to  throw 
their  private  feelmgs  into  these  compositions,  but  to 
represent  ideas  themselves.  Yet  even  here  these  ideas 
are  not  represented  by  mwsicio  i\\Q  judgment  ox  under- 
standings but  to  the  hearty  and  the  feelings  called  forth, 
for  example,  by  light,  by  the  seasops,  by  tlxe  crucifixion, 
are  intended  to  be  awakened  in  us  by  sounds.  We 
shall  feel  the  emotions  produced  by  these  phenomena  ; 
we  shall  merge  ourselves  in  them  and  experience  them 
fully.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  nothing 
arouses  us  more  quickly  than  music.  The  Marseilles 
hymn  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  classical  church 
music  of  the  middle  ages,  the  operas  of  Mozart,  the  love- 
ly melodies  in  PreischutZj  how  they  excite  and  ani- 
mate !  The  requiem  of  Mozart,  his  master-piece,  how 
it  makes  us  feel  the  melancholy  of  the  composer,  which 
remains  so  fully  in  it ! 

After  this  rather  long  digression  on  music,  in  which 
we  have  indulged  because  music  generally  receives  less 
attention  than  the  other  arts,  it  only  remains  for  me  to 
say,  that  the  poet  also  by  imagination  places  his  thoughts 
in  his  poetry.  To  do  this  he  makes  use  of  language. 
The  sound  as  the  articulate  word  is  no  longer  desired 
on  its  own  account,  but  as  means  ;  and  words  become 
the  mere  vehicle  of  thoughts.  Thus  Homer  embodied 
his  reflections  on  wrath,  haughtiness  and  voluptuous- 
ness, in  the  characters  of  Achilles,  Agamemnon  and 
Paris,  his  reflections  on  connubial  fidelity  in  Penelope, 
on  prudence  in  Ulysses,  on  life  in  general,  in  his  Iliad 
and  Odyssey.  Goethe  in  his  Iphigenia  represents  the 
thought,  that  truth  and  humanity  in  the  beautiful  ge- 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  216 

niiis  of  a  mild  and  tender  girl  will  conquer  even  the 
rudeness  of  a  barbarian.  Sophocles  exhibits  the  power 
of  a  sister's  love,  by  bringing  its  divine  power  in  con- 
tact with  the  human  statute  of  Creon,  and  by  exhibit- 
ing the  victory  of  the  former  over  the  latter  in  the  bo- 
som of  the  tender  Antigone.  And  what  is  the  case  in 
epic  and  dramatic  is  of  course  so  too  in  lyric  poetry. 
Does  not  Pindar's  grave  imagination  place  all  its  high 
and  noble  thoughts  in  the  stories  it  relates  ?  Does  it 
not  use  these  fables  as  if  they  were  invented  for  these 
contents,  which  Pindar  is  desirous  of  representing  in  a 
sensible  form? 

From  the  above  it  must  sufficiently  appear,  that  im- 
agination as  the  basis  of  arts  creates  an  unreal  world. 
By  it  all  objects  and  images  receive  ideal  substance,  and 
there  is  nothing  too  good  to  become  the  receptacle  in 
which  imagination  may  place  the  contents  of  the  mind. 
While  the  man  of  business  sees  nothing  in  spring  but 
flowers  and  hills,  the  eye  of  imagination  perceives  in 
the  flowers  and  ornamented  hills  the  connubial  gar- 
lands of  spring;  when  the  former  hears  nothing  but  the 
noise  of  a  running  brook,  imagination  hears  the  mur- 
muring waters  express  their  joy,  that  they  are  no  longer 
chained  by  the  ice,  but  have  been  freed  by  spring  to 
which  they  sing  their  song. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  IMAGINATION. 

In  continuing  the  subject  of  imagination,  it  must  be 
understood  that  its  character  is  also  that  of  art,  that  in 
describing  it,  we  in  truth  represent  the  nature  of  the  lat- 
ter. With  tins  view  we  suffer  ourselves  to  indulge  this 
interesting  topic  somewhat  beyond  that  symmetrical 
proportion  which  the  difterent  parts  of  a  book  ought  to 
exhibit  in  their  relation  to  each  other. 

And  first,  Imagination  is  originally  imitative.  This  as- 
sertion, however,  has  been  disputed,  for  it  seems  at  first 
sight  to  make  nature  the  teacher  of  man — to  indicate 
that  he  learned  from  the  fish  to  swim,  the  beaver  to  build 
houses,  from  the  spider  to  weave  the  net  with  which  he 
can  catch  the  fish  in  the  water,  and  the  bird  in  the  air. 


216  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

This  is  repulsive  to  the  laws  of  nature;  all  oiFence, 
however,  will  be  done  away  as  soon  as  we  ascer- 
tain the  true  meaning  of  imitation.  It  means  nothing 
else  than  "  to  reproduce  the  exact  measure  of  such  phe- 
nomena as  we  perceive  in  nature  or  in  the  lives  of  other 
beings."  This  capacity  is  by  no  means  to  be  despised, 
for  here  also  man  shows  himself  to  be  the  lord  of  na- 
ture, since  there  is  nothing  in  it  which  he  cannot  unite 
wrth  himself  and  make  subservient  to  his  purposes.  All 
the  lower  classes  of  animals,  some  of  which  are  docile 
in  a  high  degree^  feel  no  inclination  whatever  to  imitate, 
and  only  birds  are  attracted  by  sounds,  and  monkeys  by 
the  motions  of  man  to  attempt  it.  But  this  imitation  of 
animals  rests  on  an  instinctive,  dark  and  confused  sym- 
pathy, while  that  of  man  is  voluntary  and  designed  for 
certain  purposes.  These  are  at  first  the  removal  of 
wants  and  necessity ;  but  soon  man  delights  in  the 
skill  he  has  acquired  in  imitating  nature,  and  cultivates 
art  for  their  sake.  This  skill  manifests  to  him  his  pow- 
er; especially  when,  as  was  the  case  with  several  dis- 
tinguished painters  in  ancient  times  and  in  the  Dutch 
schools,  the  resemblance  deceives  the  eye.  Who  is  not 
here  reminded  of  the  grapes  of  Zeuxis  at  which  birds 
pecked  ;  of  the  painted  insects,  torn  to  pieces  by  a 
monkey,  anxious  to  take  hold  of  them,  of  the  horse  on 
canvass,  neighed  at  by  that  of  Alexander  :  and  of  the 
painted  linen  cloth  that  even  deceived  a  master  in  the 
art  of  painting  ?  Yet  imagination  cannot  for  a  long 
time  delight  itself  in  this  mere  skill  and  dependence  on 
nature.  The  productions  of  nature  have,  on  the  one 
hand,  a  decided  superiority  over  those  of  imagination, 
for  the  flower  in  my  garden  blooms,  breathes  and  ex- 
hales, while  that  on  paper  is  but  our  imitation  and  has 
no  life.  It  is  for  this  reason  no  doubt  that  the  Moham- 
medans object  to  art;  for  they  say  that  all  these  works 
of  art  resembling  so  much  the  works  of  nature,  will  rise 
in  the  day  of  judgment  and  demand  a  soul  of  the  artist. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  mere  skill  is  that  which  delights, 
heaiity  cannot  be  the  object  but  only  correctness^  and  in 
this  case  it  could  not  matter  whether  it  is  a  blade  of 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  21T 

^rass  or  a  beautiful  bird,  if  the  resemblance  is  only  af- 
fected. 

Imagination  is  not  satisfied  with  such  imitation ; 
freeing  itself  from  it,  it  will  at  first  indulge  fancies  and 
images  that  cannot  be  met  with  in  nature.  Elves  peep- 
ing forth  from  the  cups  of  flowers,  or  fairies  slipping 
into  them  when  the  sun  rises  ;  clouds  surrounding  a  pic- 
ture, that  exhibit  angels  whenclosely  examined,  and  gar- 
lands of  flowers,  in  the  cups  of  which  we  discover  beauti- 
ful faces  ; — such  pictures  are  the  products  of  an  imagina- 
tion freeing  itself  from  nature.  When  the  desire  to  be 
perfectly  free,  is  indulged  to  excess,  we  get  caricatures, 
witches,  and  faces  that  have  no  truly  intellectual  charac- 
ter whatever. 

By  imitating  all  that  nature  contains,  mar^  becomes 
acquainted  not  only  with  its  usefulness,  but  also  with 
its  general  nature.  In  it  he  soon  recognizes  something 
divine ;  for  while  all  the  individual  beings  are  constant- 
ly going  and  coming,  appearing  and  disappearing,  it  re- 
mains permanently  the  same,  unchangeable  and  the 
prototype  of  all  the  individual  forms  of  a  species.  Hav- 
ing compared  image  with  image,  the  eye  of  genius  sees 
what  is  no  where  realized  in  one  individual ;  it  sees 
the  prototype  of  all,  which  the  individual  is  wholly  in- 
capable of  expressing  in  a  faultless  manner.  The  idea 
of  perfect  beauty  has  arisen  in  the  mind  of  the  artist. 
He  seeks  for  it  in  reality  but  cannot  find  it.  A  hair,  a 
mole,  a  large  foot,  will  render  the  otherwise  perfect 
beauty  of  a  lady  imperfect.  So  it  is  with  every  thing  in 
history  and  elsewhere.  Our  purposes  may  be  noble, 
but  external  circumstances  attach  themselves  to  their 
execution,  and  they  are  not  what  they  were  designed  to 
be.  Historical  actions  may  have  been  well  and  fully 
designed,  but  only  a  part  of  the  design  has  been  carried 
out,  the  rest  of  the  actions  were  accidental.  The  im- 
agination of  the  artist  having  conceived  the  ideal  of 
beauty,  and  having  sought  in  vain  for  it  in  reality, 
sketches  it  on  canvas,  represents  it  in  the  statue,  or 
breathes  it  into  language.  This  idea  of  beauty  is  infi- 
nite and  invisible,  and  placing  it  in  a  sensible  form,  the 
artist  unites  the  infinite  and  finite,  the  invisible  and  visi- 

28 


218  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

ble,  and  as  by  a  magic  mirror  he  renders  the  one  visi- 
ble in  the  other.  This  union  of  the  invisible  and  visi- 
ble, of  thought  and  sensible  form,  is  beauty.  To  see  it, 
there  is  more  than  an  accurate  bodily  eye  required  ;  and 
he  who  has  not  the  soul  of  beauty  in  his  own  mind,  will 
never  discover  it  out  of  himself.  Compositions  like 
those  of  Mozart ;  cathedrals  like  those  at  Cologne  and 
Strasburg;  landscapes  like  those  of  Claude  Lorraine,  are 
not  met  with  in  nature.  And  here  it  may  be  well  to 
introduce  the  views  of  some  celebrated  artists  on  this 
point.  Raphael  and  Guido  confess,  the  former,  that  he 
could  not  find  any  model  for  his  female  beauty,  his  Oa- 
latea  ;  the  latter,  that  he  sought  in  vain  for  a  model  for 
his  archangel.  Raphael  adds  in  his  letter,  in  which  he 
states  the  above  :  "  Because  I  cannot  find  the  ideal  of 
my  Galatea  in  reality,  I  make  use  of  a  certain  idea." 
[This  word  used  in  the  sense  of  Plato.]  When  Zeuris, 
requested  by  a  city  to  paint  Helena,  asked  for  five  of 
the  most  beautiful  girls  as  models,  did  he  not  say,  that 
there  was  no  single  virgin  equal  to  his  ideal  of  beauty  7 
Hence  Winkelmann  is  correct  in  saying :  Nature  may  ex- 
hibit single  parts  of  as  great  beauty,  as  art  ever  pro- 
duced ;  but  beauty  as  a  whole,  nature  must  yield  to  art. 
Goethe  said  once  to  Eckermann:  he  heads  of  two  hor- 
ses of  ancient  date  and  lately  found  are  of  such  beauty, 
that  the  English,  the  best  horsemen  in  the  world,  are 
constrained  to  acknowledge  that  they  never  saw  such 
horses  in  reality  .  And  again  :  when  once  asked  respect- 
ing a  picture  of  Rubens',  he  said :  such  scenery  has 
never  been  seen  in  nature  ;  this  we  owe  to  the  poetical 
genius  of  Rubens . 
^  A  good  imagination,  however,  is  not  unnatural ;  it 
,>  makes  use  of  the  objects  of  nature,  and  puts  the  riches 
'  of  its  own  soul  into  them.  So  Goethe  says  of  Claude 
/  Lorraine  ;  he  knew  the  world  and  used  it  as  a  means  by 
"'} '  which  to  express  his  rich  soul. 

Though  we  fear  to  swell  this  portion  too  much  we 
cannot  deny  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  adding  two  ques- 
tions more   with  regard  to  art ;  ,  What  is  its  truth  ? 
What  is  its  aim  ? 
With  regard  to  the  former  questioij  a  host  of  views 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  219 

ought  to  be  met  if  space  would  allow  it.  "  Poetical 
truth  is  fictitious,  and  hence  having  no  reality,  is  of  no 
value."  This  is  the  creed  of  many  persons.  With  them 
all  truth  consists  in  the  mere  real  existence  of  a  thing, 
and  yet  so  much  every  falsehood,  every  theft,  every 
crime  claims  for  itself,  for  all  of  them  have  at  least  an 
existence.  Real  truth,  however,  is  not  the  mere  external 
existence  of  a  thing,  but  its  rational  and  general  na- 
ture. If  I  say:  ^^  this  plant  hlooms^^  and  a  few 
days  after  any  one  goes  to  see  whether  it  is  so,  it  may 
have  ^shed  its  flowers,  and  consequently  what  I  said  is 
no  longer  true.  But  if  I  name  the  species  of  the  plant, 
its  kind,  describe  its  form  and  manner  of  life,  as  this  be- 
longs not  only  to  it  as  an  individual,  but  to  its  species, 
I  have  given  truth  ;  and  whether  any  one  sees  the  plant 
that  I  see,  or  another  of  the  same  kind,  he  will  know 
what  I  know.  Or  the  truth  is  a  historical  one.  Here 
the  opinion  is  that  the  correctness  of  the  fact  is  the 
truth  of  history.  If  so,  the  French  would  be  right  in 
asserting  that  we  have  no  history,  but  only  the  notions 
of  historians.  For  all  history  is  related  by  language  ; 
language,  however,  is  so  general  in  its  expressions  that 
it  is  wholly  impossible  for  it  to  express  any  thing  en- 
tirely individual.  If  I  say  :  he  squints^  I  can  convey 
only  something  general;  many  squint,  but  each  one  in 
a  peculiar  manner,  and  this  peculiarity  cannot  be  repre- 
sented by  the  word  squint.  It  can  only  be  pointed  out 
to  the  eye  with  the  finger.  Every  historical  action  is 
to  be  performed  by  individuals;  their  feelings  enter  into 
it  as  elements  ;  it  pre-supposes  a  certain  place,  a  certain 
hour,  all  will  affect  the  feelings  of  the  individuals  ; — but 
who  would  or  who  could  by  the  strongest  imagination 
discover  all  the  particulars  of  such  an  action  1 
Hence  it  follows  that  what  might  be  called  the  real  ex- 
istence of  an  action  cannot  be  conveyed  by  language 
which  is  so  general.  But  it  cannot  utter  our  feelings  at 
all  except  by  interjections.  And  again  :  the  action  as  it 
occurred,  existed  differently  from  what  it  does  in  our 
conceptions.  There  is  its  reality,  here  its  ideality.  Now 
all  of  us  know  how  differently  actions  are  described  by 
different  spectators,  though  they  are  most  impartial. 


220  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

And  yet  we  speak  of  historical  truth  !  The  truth  of 
history  consists  in  the  spirit  that  produces  the  action, 
in  the  development  of  national  intellect,  prosperity,  in- 
tercourse, &c.,  so  that  one  action  is  interwoven  with 
another  by  one  and  the  same  national  spirit.  This  spirit^ 
this  national  exertion  to  preserve,  to  improve,  to  ad- 
vance itself,  is  the  truth  of  history.  I  may  know,  for 
instance,  the  hour  and  place,  when  and  where  a  battle 
was  fought,  the  individual  persons  who  fell,  and  those 
who  escaped  ;  and  yet  I  may  have  no  historical  truth. 
But  when  the  design  for  which  the  battle  was  fought 
becomes  known  to  me,  and  its  effects  upon  nations  and 
the  succeeding  history,  then  only  I  have  truth. 

From  this  it  must  appear  that  truth  does  not  consist 
merely  in  its  having  an  existence  in  reality  ;  but  that 
it  is  the  rational  generality,  the  general  spirit  which  ap- 
pears in  and  through  a  thing.  The  thing  is  perishable, 
the  spirit  eternal.  Now  in  this  respect  the  truth  of  art 
agrees  fully  with  truth  in  general.  The  artist's  eye  per- 
ceives the  truth  resting  in  the  objects  or  historical  oc- 
currences ;  he  perceives  that  it  is  clouded  there  by 
many  circumstances,  and  loving  the  truth  he  feels  an 
irresistible  desire  to  represent  it  as  he  sees  and  loves  it ; 
free  from  every  thing  not  pertaining  to  it,  pure  and 
transparent.  This  of  course  can  only  be  said  of  true  and 
genuine  art,  and  not  of  its  inferior  branches  ;  of  Shak- 
speare,  and  not  of  Bulwer  ;  of  the  better  parts  of  Byron 
but  not  of  his  poetry  in  general. 

Thus  then  we  have  answered  the  first  question,  and 
with  it  also  the  second.  For  if  the  truth  of  art  is  what 
we  have  seen  it  to  be,  the  representation  of  this  truth  is 
its  aim.  Artists  do  not  merely  desire  to  imitate,  for  then 
their  labors  would  be  vanity ;  nor  merely  to  entertain, 
for  then  they  would  stand  on  the  same  scale  with  jug- 
glers, ventriloquists,  &,c.  Their  aim  is  to  represent  the 
invisible  in  the  visible,  the  infinite  in  the  finite,  eternal 
truth  in  its  purity  by  rendering  it  manifest  in  a  sensible 
form  and  shape.  By  this  its  aim,  art  differs  from  all 
sciences,  all  of  which  make  constant  efforts  to  jreneralize 
single  objects,  and  classify  them,  and  therefore,  proceed 
in  a  manner  directly  opposite  to  that  of  art.     Yet  art 


4% 


SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS.  221 

and  science  serve  each  other,  for  the  latter  ^ivesthe  rule 
for  the  former,  and  the  former  furnishes  materials  for  the 
latter,  and  by  its  pictures  the  study  of  natural  history, 
(fee. 

Secondly.  Our  imagination  is  either  rich  or  poor, 
that  is,  it  produces  many  or  few  new  images,  or  it  is 
strong  or  weak,  fiery  in  its  productions,  vivid  and  dis- 
tinct, or  cool  and  indifferent.  Here  according  to  the  law, 
that  a  power  spread  over  a  large  surface  will  be  less 
strong  than  when  apart  in  smaller  circumference — the 
rich  imagination  may  be  less  accurate  and  precise  than 
a  strong  one,  for  the  former  will  produce  more  new  im- 
ages than  the  latter.  An  imagination  that  has  but  a 
few  objects  attractive  to  itself,  cannot  of  course  have 
many  materials  for  the  formation  of  its  productions.  It 
shows  both  strength  and  riches,  when  it  knows  how  to 
use  the  few  materials  it  has,  with  the  most  various  and 
always  new  modifications.  Such  an  imagination  pro- 
duces from  the  object  the  greatest  variety  of  the  most 
beautiful  imagery,  as  for  instance,  that  of  Ossian.  It 
differs  likewise  in  quality.  The  imagination  of  the 
gardener,  the  geometer,  the  man  of  business,  and  the 
architect,  easily  perceives  regularity  and  order,  symme- 
try and  harmony.  Th^  imagination  of  the  painter  and 
sculptor  is  aided  by  the  eye,  and  form,  colors,  light  and 
shade,  flow  easily  from  the  chisel  and  brush — the  ideas 
of  the  artist's  animating  hand  and  fingers.  Imagina- 
tion aided  by  the  ear,  fits  for  music  and  language. 

Thirdly.  Imagination  differs  also  with  regard  to  its 
form.  This  is  either  symbolical,  classical,  or  roman- 
tic. 

The  form  of  imagination  is  symbolical  when  it  places 
its  contents  in  an  object,  which  is  more  or  less  capable 
of  indicating  them.  Truth,  for  example,  is  the  same  in 
the  sphere  of  science,  that  light  is  in  the  sphere  of  nature. 
Thus  far  both  are  homogeneous.  But  truth  is  spiritual 
and  cannot  be  felt  by  a  sense,  nor  perceived  by  the  mere 
bodily  eye,  while  the  rays  of  light  may  be  felt.  When 
now  truth,  as  an  invisible  power,  is  represented  by  the 
orb  of  the  sun,  we  have  a  symbol.  The  symbol  is  some- 
thing external — a  form  perceptible  by  sense,  which  by  its 


222  SELF-CONSGIOUSNESS. 

peculiar  position  convinces  us  that  it  contains  a  hidden 
meaning.  This  meaning  is  invisible  and  internal.  In 
symbolical  imagination,  therefore,  we  must  distinguish 
the  e^xternal  form  from  the  internal  signification.  The 
owl  at  the  feet  of  Athena,  for  instance,  held  by  a  chain,  is 
the  symbol  of  darkness  for  it  cannot  see  by  day ;  the  chain 
in  the^hand  of  the  goddess  of  wisdom  is  the  symbol  of  the 
powers  of  light  over  darkness.  We  can  only  see  the 
owl  and  the  chain,  but  being  connected  with  Athena  we 
must  believe  that  the  artist  had  some  design  in  placing 
it  there,  and  that  the  owl  is  but  the  receptacle  of  some 
of  his  thoughts,  which  we  must  discover  by  reflection. 

Imagination  is  classical  when  form  and  contents  so 
fully  receive  each  other,  that  the  former  is  transparent 
and  seems  only  to  exist  in  order  to  represent  the  latter, 
and  when  the  latter  fully  expresses  itself  so  that  the  art- 
ist not  only  shows  the  best  form,  but  also  knows  how 
to  communicate  by  it  every  particle  of  its  contents,  leav- 
ing nothing  unexpressed,  retaining  nothing  in  his  bo- 
som. This  entire  intussusception  of  form  and  contents 
is  the  only  classical  fo]:m  of  imagination,  and  we 
meet  with  it  in  Greece  alone.  If  in  the  symbolical 
form,  contents  and  form  are  only  brought  together  ex- 
ternally, if  we  must  reflect  in  order  to  discover  the  one 
in  the  other,  the  contents  in  the  form,  if  consequently 
we  may  make  a  mistake  ;  with  the  classical  form  all  is 
otherwise,  for  all  is  clear,  transparent,  and  perfectly  beau- 
tiful. Who  that  looks  at  the  statue  of  Apollo,  will  not 
at  once  recognize  an  ever-blooming  youth,  that,  free 
from  care  and  trouble,  rejoices  in  the  feeling  of  exis- 
tence. 

The  form  of  imagination  may  be  romantic.  As  such 
it  was  not  known  to  the  ancients  ;  for  it  has  become 
possible  only  since  the  introduction  of  Christianity 
which  opened  to  the  mind  of  man  the  world  of  infinite 
spirit ;  this  world,  filling  the  breast  of  artists,  imagina- 
tion seeks  in  vain  for  conceptions  and  images  in  which 
to  place,  and  by  which  to  express  it.  Nothing  in  the 
world  can  represent  in  an  adequate  form,  that  God  whom 
Christ  has  revealed.  The  spirit  is  only  accessible  to 
the  spirit ;  we  cannot  convey  it  by  any  image.    The 


SELP-CONSCIOUSNESS.  223 

symbol,  it  is  true,  may  represent  the  Infinite  by  the 
finite  ;  but  what  a  defective  representation  !  And  yet, 
however  defective,  it  satisfied  the  ancients,  for  they  had 
no  clear  idea  of  the  Invisible  and  Infinite;  they  felt  it 
darkly,  but  knew  it  not.  Now  the  infinite  is  clearly  re- 
vealed ;  hence  it  is  that  no  representation  given  it  by 
imagination  will  sufiice,  for  our  consciousness  of  the 
Infinite  will  flow  beyond  every  visible,  finite  form,  and 
leave  it  far  behind.  The  poet  is  overpowered  by  the 
riches  of  his  theme,  and  yet  he  cannot  dismiss  it.  He 
feels  that  he  cannot  fully  express  what  agitates  his 
breast  and  yet  he  is  irresistiblj'-  urged  to  give  vent  to 
his  deep  and  lasting  emotions.  The  elements  of  the  ro- 
mantic imagination  are,  the  love  of  Christ,  the  vanity  of 
all  things,  a  desire  for  an  eternal  home,  the  transitori- 
ness  of  this  and  the  immortality  of  a  future  life.  Its 
elements  are  on  the  one  hand  the  spirit  and  the  world 
for  which  it  is  destined,  and  on  the  other  hand,  this 
world  of  sense  in  which  it  lives  and  which  cannot  satisfy 
its  spiritual  longing,  nor  represent  its  ideas.  This  ro- 
mantic character  is  indicated  by  the  steeples  which  are 
peculiar  to  christian  churches ;  they  rise  high  into  the 
clouds,  and  point  to  a  world  above. 

If  we  compare  these  three  forms  with  each  other,  we 
shall  find  the  symbolical  to  be  sublime^  the  classical  to 
be  beautifuljSiiid  the  lonidiniic  to  be  sentimental  Siud 
mystical. 

Fourthly.  The  power  of  imagination  is  susceptible 
of  cultivation.  At  first,  it  is  rude,  colossal,  and  without 
measure.  So,  for  instance,  the  mythus  of  Uma  and 
Siva,  or  of  Sagaras  and  Vishnu  in  India  ;  of  Faust  in 
Germany.  It  becomes  cultivated  when  it  produces  ac- 
cording to'  laws.  It  will  become  piquant,  paradoxical, 
barroqti^,  full  of  caricatures,  when  it  is  arbitrary.  The 
statues  of  an  Italian  count,  made  of  the  finest  stone,  are 
examples  of  arbitrary  imagination.  He  had  the  head 
of  a  goose  put  upon  the  body  of  a  lady ;  or  the  neck  of 
a  goose  with  the  head  of  an  eagle  on  the  body  of  a  lion. 

Fifthly.  Imagination  and  cool  reflection  seem  to  be 
antipodes ;  the  youthful  fire  and  warmth,  and  freshness 
of  the  former,  are  extinguished  by  the  considerateness 


224  SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

and  logical  calculation  of  the  latter.  Yet  imagination 
needs  the  measure^  which  thought  only  can  give  it. 
In  proportion,  however,  as  pure  thinking  prevails,  the 
imagery  of  imagination  becomes  superfluous,  and  im- 
,  agination  itself  is  made  subservient  to  reflection.  As 
man  lives  in  the  sphere  of  theoretical  truth,  so  he  moves 
in  that  of  practical  liffe  ;  in  which  the  naked  reality 
only  avails,  and  images  and  beautiful  pictures  are  of  no 
value.  Yet  as  was  remarked  above,  the  man  of  busi- 
ness, and  our  practical  life  also,  need  the  aid  of  imagi- 

^  nation.  The  yard,  the  scales  in  the  hand  of  justice, 
are  the  symbols  in  which  imagination  places  the  prac- 
tical idea  of  right.  It  was  imagination  that  taught 
savages  lo  lick  property  when  transferred  from  one  to 
another,  for  the  tongue  is  the  organ  of  assimilation ;  or  to 
break  a  straw — 5^7pwZa,  hence  stipulation — for  as  a  straw 
exactly  divided,  so  each  receives  full  value.  Here  the 
productions  of  imagination  are  no  longer  beautiful,  but 
useful.  In  the  progress  of  time,  these  symbolical  ac- 
tions become  superfluous;  a  word  becomes  sufiicient, 

^  and  where  it  is  not,  a  legal  instrument  of  writing,  or  the 

word  larittenj  is  necessary.  Thus  the  will  of  man  be- 
comes independent  of  external  things.  Imagination  in 
this  practical  respect  takes  the  following  course  :  It  is 
at  first  si/mbolical,  then  it  becomes  emhlematie^  and  final- 
ly semeiotical.  It  is  symbol  ica  1 ,  when  the  object  by  which 
it  represents  a  thought,  and  the  thought  itself  are  homo- 
geneous. Darkness  cannot  he  the  symbol  of  light;  but 
"  when  a  genius  with  an  inverted  torch  is  placed  as  a 
monument  upon  a  grave,  it  is  symbolical.  For  there  a 
life  has  been  extinguished,  a  light,  an  eye,  beneath 
that  monument  the  dead  lies  without  life,  without 
light — the  light  of  the  torch  and  the  light  of  life  are 
homogeneous."  On  the  other  hand,  the  productions  of 
imagination  are  emblematical,, when  the  form  and  con- 
tents become  inadequate  to  each  other,  or  are^heteroge- 
neous.  The  feeling  of  thirst  and  a  glass  of  beer  on  a 
tavern  sign  have  nothing  homogeneous  ;  the  sign  is 
therefore,  not  the  symbol  of  thirst,  but  its  emblem. 
Yet  there  is  still  a  relation  between  them  ;  or  if  a  rela- 
tion no  longer  exists,  the  imagination  work?  semeioti- 


m 


PSYCHOLOGY.  >  225 

caUy,  Here  the  form  intended  to  represent  certain  con- 
tents, does  not  in  the  least  resemble  them  ;  it  therefore 
represents  something  entirely  different  from  itself ;  the 
imagination  determines  that  a  thing  independent  of  its 
fitness  shall  signify  or  indicate  a  certain  thing,  though 
it  bears  not  the  slightest  relation  to  the  thing  signified. 
Two  triangles,  for  instance,  put  into  each  other,  are  in 
many  countries  used  as  signs  before  beer-houses ;  there 
is  certainly  no  relation  between  two  triangles  and  beer. 
If  the  things  used  as  symbols  and  emblems  continue  to 
have  an  existence,  whether  we  place  contents  in  them 
or  not,  the  sign  loses  all  importance  when  the  thought 
signified  is  drawn  from  it,  or  when  it  is  no  longer  used 
significantly.  Many  signs  which  we  daily  make  can 
be  understood  by  no  one  except  ourselves;  the  boy,  for 
instance,  breaks  down  a  few  branches  near  where  he 
has  discovered  a  bird's  nest ;  this  is  to  him  an  indica- 
tive sign,  but  not  to  us,  hence  we  can  attach  no  impor- 
tance to  these  broken  branches. 

"We  have  yet  to  consider  imagination,  as  producing 
signSy  and  as  such  it  may  be  called, 

SEMEIOTIC  IMAGINATION. 

The  term  semeioiicAs  not  found  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. It  is  of  Greek  origin  from  the  word  ff;?//aa,  sign. 
With  this  explanation  we  may  be  permitted  to  use  it 
here.  Every  thing  in  nature,  upon  which  man  may 
impress  his  will,  must  suffer  itself  to  be  used  by  him  as 
a  sign.  Even  rivers  may  become  the  signs  of  bounda- 
ries. Yet  the  more  susceptible  a  thing  is  of  receiving  a 
mark  from  the  hands  of  man,  the  better  it  is  qualified 
for  a  sign.  Thus,  the  staff  in  the  hand  of  Agamemnon, 
"  which  sent  forth  no  leaves,  and  retained  no  life,  after  the 
knife  cut  it  from  its  trunk  and  peeled  and  smoothed  it," 
is  the  sign  of  power  ;  so  the  hickory  pole  with  its  flags  is 
a  sign,  intelligible  to  all  the  citizens  of  the  union.  The 
signs  of  semeiotic  imagination  are  contained  either  in 
space  or  time,  either  in  rest  or  in  motion,  and  may  be 
thus  classified  :  Signs  in  space  have  different  forms,  yet 
they  are  not  to  be  ve^lued  by  their  forms,  but  by  what 

29 


4 


226  PSYCHOEOGY. 

they  indicate.  The  cockade,  the  flag,  which  indicates 
a  nation's  ideas  of  its  liberty,  and  which  though  at  rest 
themselves  may  cause  the  greatest  commotions,  as  the 
fkig  when  unfurled  and  waving  in  the  air;  are  of  more 
importance  than  the  most  showy  sign  before  a  tavern. 
The  signs  that  are  only  in  space  are  innumerable  ; 
those  that  I  make  in  a  book  while  reading  it,  in  my 
walks,  and  those  made  by  private  individuals  in  their 
gardens  or  houses,  used  by  companies  on  their  seals, 
by  nations  in  the  uniform  of  their  soldiers,  &c.  At  first 
these  signs  had  a  meaning  in  themselves, but  this  mean- 
ing was  gradually  lost,  and  semeiotic  imagination  used 
them  for  whatever  purpose  it  pleased. 

When,  on  the  other  hand,  the  sign  is  something 
which  exists  only  in  time,  it  must  be  always  in  motion. 
The  numerous  signs  that  belong  to  the  art  of  expres- 
sing thoughts  by  the  motions  of  the  body,  have  been  al- 
ready alluded  to  in  Part  I,  Chapter  III,  to  which  the 
reader  is  referred.  Other  signs  are  ;  rockets  discharged 
in  the  air;  the  waving  of  a  handkerchief;  the  hoisting 
of  a  flag,  &c.  These  are  all  of  them  for  the  eye,  and 
naust  be  noticed  at  the  very  moment,  when  they  are  in 
motion.  Imagination  is  more  rich,  however,  in  the 
signs  it  produces  for  the  ear.  Sounds  become  signals. 
Clapping  the  hands  may  indicate  applause,  hissing, 
disapprobation.  The  same  sounds  may  affect  us  in  the 
most  different  ways,  and  these  different  effects  depend 
wholly  on  the  meaning  we  attach  to  them.  In  Ger- 
many, where  in  former  times  every  occurrence  of  the 
day  was  brought  into  connection  with  religion,  it  was 
announced  by  the  same  bell  that  summoned  worshipers 
to  the  house  of  God  on  Sabbaths  a:nd  holy  days.  The 
bell  accompanied  the  life  of  an  individual  from  bis  cra- 
dle to  his  grave ;  and  it  was  also  the  tongue  to  announce 
the  grand  divisions  of  the  day.  All  these  things  the 
bell  proclaimed  by  the  same  sound,  and  yet  how  differ- 
ent were  the  feelings  excited  in  us  when  its  rich  sounds 
fell  upon  the  ear  at  Easter,  from  those  called  forth  by 
the  same  bell  on  Good  Friday,  on  the  Sabbath,  or  early 
in  the  morning  when  it  announced  the  rising  of  the 
sun!     Again,  the  chimes  of  a  bell,  that  reach  us  from 


■#% 


PSYCHOLOGY.  227 

the  summit  of  a  hill  covered  with  forests,  where  silence 
reigns  and  nothing^  is  to  be  seen  but  a  solitary  chapel — 
how  sweetly  are  we  affected  by  them  !  Poets  like  Uh- 
land,  Schiller  and  others,  have  made  these  chimes  the 
themes  of  some  of  their  finest  poems. 

Next  in  rank  are  organical  sounds,  or  such  as  are 
produced  by  the  organs  of  man  ;  hence  sounds  of  in- 
struments, the  trumpet,  flute,  &c.  The  sounds  of  the 
trumpet  govern  the  motions  of  a  body  of  cavalry, 
those  of  the  flute  are  fitted  for  the  expression  of  love. 
Whistling  is  likewise  a  signal,  but. a  signal  of  uncertain 
character.  The  watch-man  in  pursuit  of  a  thief  m.akes 
use  of  it,  and  so  does  the  thief. 

Finally,  articulate  sounds  must  serve  as  signs.  But 
what  sounds  are  articulate  7  Those  produced  by  ar- 
ticuloSj  by  the  tongue,  teeth  and  lips  ;  those  therefore 
that  are  formed  by  all  of  them.  The  sounds  of  animals 
differ  from  those  of  instruments  ;  the  latter  are  based  in 
the  vibrations  of  bodies,  the  former  rests  in  the  voice. 
The  superiority  of  the  latter  may  be  seen  even  in  the 
external  form.  Musical  instruments  are  either  long,  as 
the  flute,  the  horn,  the  clarinet,  or  voluminous  as  the 
drum,  &c. ;  but  the  throat  of  the  animal  producing  the 
voice,  unites  both  length  and  depth.  Yet  while  the 
voice  of  the  animal  is  superior  to  the  sounds  of  instru- 
ments, the  voice  of  man  is  superior  to  that  of  animals ; 
for  it  is  capable  of  producing  the  word.  The  Latins 
have  one  root  for  voice  and  word,  vox — vocabulum.  The 
word  contains  more  than  a  mere  sign — a  sign  for  light 
indicates  only  light  as  visible  to  the  eye.  The  word 
light  contains  all  that  natural  philosophers  know  about 
it.  Hence  with  articulate  sounds  as  words,  we  approach 
a  higher  sphere  of  the  mind,  and  as  conceptions  are 
connected  with  each  other  by  the  power  of  our  self-con- 
sciousness, so  are  words  as  the  signs  of  thought,  and  in 
this  union  they  form  language. 

LANGUAGE. 

All  our  conceptions  depend  upon  our  sensations,  and 
are  impossible  without  them.     Our  sensations  depend 


228  PSYCHOLOGY. 

on  our  individuality,  and  are  impossible  without  it ;  for 
that,  which  has  no  individual  life,  cannot  feel.  Con- 
ceptions without  words  are,  therefore,  confined  to  the 
individual,  transient  as  itself,  and  limited  to  its  pecu- 
liar existence.  But  when  a  <jonception  is  expressed  by 
a  word,  it  receives  an  existence  independent  of  that  of 
th6  individual,  and  is  rescued  from  the  danger  of  being 
lost  with  it.  Through  the  word  a  conception  becomes 
permanent ;  without  it,  it  would  disappear  with  the  per- 
son that  formed  it,  as  the  gilded  xiloud  vanishes  with  the 
setting  sun.  The  conception  is  internal,  hs  we  have 
before  seen  ;  the  word  is  so  likewise,  for  it  has  no  es;- 
isience  in  space,  no  external  form  ;  yet  it  is  for  the  ear 
and  consequently  audible.  Thus  while  the  conception 
originally  is  not  for  the  senses,  it  receives  by  the  word 
an  external  utterance  for  the  ear.  Language,  then,  is 
the  external  expression  for  our  internal  conceptions. 
This,  however,  must  not  be  misunderstood,  for  though 
the  word  is  external  as  sound,  it  must  become  internal 
by  hearing.  This  shows  itself,  when  uncultivated  per- 
sons read  ;  here  the  word  has  its  corresponding  signs  in 
space,  but  such  persons  nevertheless  either  read  aloud, 
or  imitate  the  sound  with  their  lips. 

Language  is  either  that  of  signs^x  that  of  words. 
The  former  we  have  spoken  of  in  the  division  on  se- 
meiotic  imagination.  It  is  not  so  much  the  product  of 
mind,  as  of  the  necessities  and  wants  of  our  nature. 
It  is  limited  in  its  extent,  and  can  only  cause  others  to 
feel  as  we  do,  or  to  understand  our  sensations.  I  am 
hungry,  another  has  food ;  I  make  a  sign,  chew,  or  point 
to  his  food  and  thus  make  him  understand  my  appetite. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  express  thoughts  or  ideas  by  such 
signs,  had  they  not  been  conveyed  by  words  before,  and 
had  they  only  been  placed  in  these  signs.  Something 
similar  to  a  language  of  signs  we  undoubtedly  meet  with 
in  nature.  The  ants  that  touch  each  other,  when  danger 
threatens  ;  the  bird  that  on  the  watch,  gives  a  sign  to 
warn  ;  the  hen,  that  calls  its  young — have  all  of  them  a 
language  of  signs;  yet  we  must  not  say  that  they  un- 
derstand each  other,  for  they  live  in  the  sphere  of  mere 
sensation  and  perception.     These  signs  only  serve,  to 


•#• 


,     ,'  PSYCHOLOGY.  '  *229 

call  forth  the  same  dark  sensations,  the  possibility  of 
which  is  easily  comprehended,  when  we  consider  that 
one  hen  chicks  like  another,  and  that  animals  of  the 
same  species  have  the  same  self-feeling,  and  that  this 
will  express  itself  by  the  same  peculiar  voice,  and  note 
in  all  the  individuals. 

The  language  of  toords,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  dif- 
ferent origin  and  one  that  is  more  disputed.  And  in- 
deed we  must  confess  that  it  is  difficult  to  be  ascertain- 
ed. For  the  more  carefully  we  examine  the  subject, 
the  more  we  are  led  by  the  consideration  of  the  diifer- 
ent  elements  of  language  to  different  views.  These  ele- 
ments it  may  be  proper  to  point  out  here  : 

It  is  admitted  by  all,  that  where  there  is  design  and 
an  adaptation  of  means  to  an  end,  there  must  be  a  culti- 
vated intellect,  there  must  be  knowledge  of  the  desio^n. 
Without  language,  however,  there  can  be  no  know- 
ledge, since  a  conception  will  be  without  clearness  and      ^    .  4J  < 
distinctness,  until  it  is  expressed  by  a  word.    This  shows-    ^   .^*  '^ 
itself  in  children,  who  as  long  as,  they  do  not  speak /^  "^  \*>^     * 
have  no  clear  conceptions  ;  but  when  they  learn  to 
speak,  they  learn  to  understand.     Language  here  seems 
indispensable  for  the  development  of  mind.     But  any         *'*[  •  ,, 
one  who  has  paid  a  little  attention  to  speech,  must  ob-  * .  * ' 

serve  from  the  etymological  part  of  grammar  to  the 
highest  syntactical  rules,  the  laws  of  reason  ;  so  that  it 
may   be  said  with   truth   that  language  is  imbodied  . 

reason,  or  reason  which  has  become  objective  to  itself. 
If  reason  is  undeveloped  before  there  is  a  language,  and 
again,  if  language  is  developed  reason  in  an  external 
form  or  as  it  has  uttered  itself,  how  can  the  undeveloped 
reason  be  said  to  have  invented  language  ?  Especially 
when  it  is  considered,  that  the  languages  of  the  most  re- 
mote times,  have  those  words  by  which  the  relation  of  the 
finite  to  the  infinite  may  be  expressed  with  the  greatest 
accuracy — such  are,  for  instance,  life,  sight,  being,  truth, 
spirit,  good,  right,  holy,  justice,  salvation,  dec.  Again, 
to  say  that  man  has  invented  language,  would  be  no 
better  than  to  assert  that  he  has  invented  law.  To 
make  laws,  there  must  be  a  law  obligating  all  to  keep 
them  ;  to  agree  or  make  a  compact,  to  observe  certain 


S^6>  PSYCHOLOGY. 


institutes,  there  must  be  already  a  government  protect- 
ing this  compact.  To  invent  langnage,  pre-supposes 
language  already,  for  how  could  men  agree  to  name 
different  objects,  without  communicating  by  words  their 
designs  ?  From  all  this  it  must  follow,  that  man  did 
not  invent,  but  received  his  language  from  God.  Thus 
far  it  seems  all  correct,  but  this  view  is  nevertheless 
one-sided,  and  does  not  notice  one  fact  of  great  impor- 
tance. Reason  and  language,  as  the  Greek  word  logoSj 
indicates,  are  identical.  The  conception  I  have  is  a 
word  unuttered ;  the  word  I  pronounce  is  a  conception 
sounded  with  the  lips.  If  I  have  to  produce  by  my 
mental  activity  the  conception,  I  must  undoubtedly  cre- 
ate the  word  for  it,  since  the  former  is  wholly  impossi- 
ble without  the  latter.  The  conception  could  no  more 
be  received  by  the  more  word  or  its  sound,  than  a 
word  could  be  understood  without  the  conception  which 
it  invests ;  and  if  God  had  taught  man  language,  he 
must  either  have  given  him  the  conception  together 
with  their  comprehending  words,  and  then  it  would  be 
incomprehensible  how  he  could  receive  either  without 
his  own  spontaneous  activity,  or  he  must  have  given 
merely  the  words  as  shells,  in  which  to  place  his 
thoughts.  If  the  former  were  the  case,  man  would  be- 
come a  mere  machine,  through  which  another  thinks 
and  speaks ;  in  the  latter  it  would  be  impossible  to  see, 
how  man  could  be  taught  mere  words  without  having 
already  an  idea  of  language.  Hence  this  view  was 
abandoned  and  one  directly  opposite  embraced — "  Man 
has  invented  language  by  his  own  ingenuity."  If  God 
taught  Adam  language,  he  of  course  taught  him  but 
one  ;  but  we  know,  that  every  savage  tribe  has  its  own 
tongue,  and  that  the  less  cultivated  nations  and  savages 
are,  the  more  various  their  languages  will  be.  Thousands 
of  languages  have  been  already  discovered.  Klaproth, 
on  his  journey  through  a  small  part  of  Asia,  met  with 
no  less  than  thirty-six  ;  among  our  Indians  every  tribe 
has  a  language  unintelligible  to  all  the  others.  There 
must  have  been  more  than  one  language  from  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world,  as  mankind  spread  and  existed 
in  different  races,  its  languages  become  multiplied,  so 


.^- 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


231' 


-  V 


■^•1^' 


that  to  understand  the  language  of  one  tribe,  an  indi- 
vidual belonging  to  another,  must  acquire  it  with  hard 
labor.     Again,  we  see  that  birds  sing,  that  quadrupeds 
express  their  wants  by  their  voice,  the  lion  roars  when 
hungry, — should  not  man,  gifted  with  reason  and  excel- 
lent organs  to  articulate  sounds,  be  able  to  express  his 
wants  and  necessities  by  sounds  framed  with  words  % 
A  close  examination  of  many  words  will  lead  us  to  be- 
lieve, that  man  imitated  nature.     This  imitation  could 
not  be  difficult,  since  his  organs  of  speech  will  enable 
Jiim  to  form  every   sound  that  nature   can  produce.  , 
Words  of  this  kind  are,  for  instance,  rustlings  mur- 
muring^ xvhistlingj  rollings  lisping,  roaring.     And 
again  we  find  many  words,  the  sounds  of  which  are  the 
same  indifferent  languages :  Thus,  Sanskrit, pi^a  ;  Lat., 
/pater  ;   Gr.,  Trarrip  ;   Eng.,  father ;  Ger.,   Vater ;   &c. 
Sanskr.j  mata  ;  Lat.,  mater ;  Gr.,  urtTvp ;   Eng.,  mother  ; 
Germ.,  mutter.     Sanskr,  rohitah  ;  Lat.,  rufus  ;  Eng., 
red;  Ger. j  roth  ;   Italian,  rosso;   Fr.,  row^e  ;  Dutch, 
rood;  Danish,  rod.     Sanskr.,  padas ;  Gr.,  novi  ;  Lat., 
•;^^  pe5 ;  Eng., /oo^  ;  Goth.,  fothus;  Ger.,  fuss  ;  Frank, 
vuoz.     Sanskr.  tan  ;  Gr.,  reiveiv ;  Lat.,  tendere  ;  Eng., 
extend;     Ger.,     dehnen ;     Goth,     than] an ;    Frank, 
deneji^  <fcc.      These    parallels    might  be    much  mul- 
tiplied, but  the  above  examples  are  sufficient  to  make 
us   ask:     Whence    come   these    words    into   the  dif- 
erent  languages? — Man  will  not  only  notice,  but  by 
his  attention  distinguish  sounds  in  the  most  precise 
manner  ;  he  will  then  imitate   them,  desirous  of  com- 
municating some  things  to  his  fellow- men  by    their 
sounds  or  form.     Thus  by  an  innate  desire  to  imitate, 
man  was  induced  to  form  some  words  and  finally  the 
entire  language.     It  was  not  necessary  for  him,  to  be  in 
the  full  possession  of  the  reason,  for  how  many  even  now 
speak  without  being  aware,  that  there  are  rules,  or  gram- 
mars, exhibiting  them. — This  also  appears  to  be  a  very 
mistaken  view.     It  severs  what  God  has  joined  together, 
reason  and  language,  conception  and  word.     It  admits 
that  the  conception  could  exist  long  before  the  word, 
and  that  man  might  seek  for  the  latter  after  he  has  the 
former.     This  idea  is  not  much  better  than  to  say,  that 


232 


PSYCHOLOGY^ 


man  invented  sleep  ;  for  the  act  of  thinking  and  that  of 
speaking  is  so  much  the  same,  that  no  person  can  think 
without  speaking,  if  not  loud,  at  least  to  himself,  though 
he  should  not  notice  it.  Feelings  and  sensations  may- 
do  without  words,  but  thoughts  need  words,  and  think- 
ing is  but  an  internal  speaking,  as  speaking  is  an  exter- 
^nal  thinking.  Another  mistake  is  this.  The  question 
before  us,  has  no  reference  at  all  to  will ;  it  must  be  left 
out  of  view  ;  yet  both  of  the  views  exhibited  refer  more 
or  less  to  it.  But  the  exercise  of  willpre-supposes  the 
existence  of  language. 

1  shall  attempt  to  answer  the  question  above  in  the 
following  manner  : — Reason  is  the  source  of  all  our  con- 
ceptions and  thoughts ;  thoughts  are  the  same  internal- 
ly, that  words  are  externally.  As  reason  produces  our 
conceptions,  so  it  produces  inseparably  with  them  also 
their  corresponding  words.  As  the  plastic  power  pro- 
duces at  the  same  time  sap  and  barky  form  and  con- 
tents, so  reason  produces  thought  and  language.  Bat 
reason  has  not  its  origin  in  itself;  its  author  is  God, 
whose  will  lives  in  it  as  its  law.  The  author  of  lan- 
guage is,  therefore,  not  man,  but  God.  Yet  we  must 
not  understand  this,  as  if  God  had  taught  man  language 
as  a  teacher  makes  a  scholar  learn  ;  but  God  gave  man 
a  power,  that  in  developing  itself,  would  necessarily 
with  itself  develop  language.  God  did  not  give  lan- 
guage as  something  ready  formed,  as  we  give  our  schol- 
ars the  elements  of  the  Greek  tongue  in  dictionaries 
and  grammars,  but, — and  this  God  only  could  do, — gave 
him  a.  power,  by  which  to  name  all  thmgs  and  made  the 
animals  pass  before  Adam,  to  see  what  he  would  name 
them,  and  the  names  he  would  give  them  should  be  their 
names.  This  view  comprises  what  is  true  in  the  two 
former,  and  avoids  their  errors.  Or  in  other  words : 
God  gave  man  in  his  reason  the  possibility  of  thinking 
and  speaking,  as  he  placed  in  the  germ  the  possibility  of 
growing  and  developing  a  specific  form.  Without  will 
or  design  on  the  part  of  man,  but  naturally  and  uncon- 
sciously, language  proceeds  from  the  development  of 
reason. 

A  few  remarks  will  corroborate  this  idea.    Reason, 


*'  "^  V  ^ 


** 


.^ 


PSYCHOLOGY.  233 


the  possibility  of  thinking  and  speaking,  is  essentially   .•       -^ 
the  same  in  all  individuals  ;  its  laws  are  the  same,  and  *^ 
its  functions.      So  nature    surrounding  us, — however  -Sl* 

modified   its    phenomena   may  be,— is  essentially  the  ^^ 

same  in  all  its  laws  and  activities,  and  these  are  the 
same  as  those  of  reason,  given  by  the  same  divine  being. 

As  by  reason  we  think  and  reflect,  so  we  receive  all 
the  impressions  of  the  senses,  from  which  we  form  our  * 
conceptions,  from  nature.  On  account  of  this  identity 
of  reason  and  nature  we  are  able  to  know  the  latter,  -'*- 
otherwise  no  communication  would  take  place  between 
it  and  ourselves.  In  so  far  as  all  persons  have  the 
same  laws  of  reason  and  are  impressed  by  nature  ac- 
cording to  the  same  laws,  so  far  it  is  one  and  the 
same  substance  or  being,  that  lives  in  all  and  connects 
all,  so  that  every  thought  proceeding  from  this  reason, 
must  be  the  same  in  whatever  individual  it  may  origin- 
ate, and  so  that  one  can  lead  out  a  thought  and  render 
it  complete  though  it  took  rise  in  another. 

But  if  reason  is  every  where  the  same,  whence  the 
difference  of  languages?  Why  have  we  not  o?ze  lan- 
guage only,  as  we  have  one  reason?  We  answer, 
reason,  though  essentially  one  in  its  laws  and  nature,  is 
nevertheless  modified  by  its  connection  with  the  body,  the 
constitution  and  through  it  with  climate,  as  has  been  seen 
in  Anthropology.  All  the  modifications  caused  by  the 
influences  of  nature,  race,  nation,  occupation,  &c.,  must 
here  be  recalled,  and  must  be  admitted  to  have  a  con- 
siderable influence  on  our  attention,  conception,  fancy 
and  imagination,  memory  arid  thinking.  Reason  is  • 
thus  the  same,  and  again  difiers  in  the  various  regions 
of  the  earth.  So  the  flame  remains  the  same,  though  ' 
spread  from  one  to  a  thousand  torches,  but  the  torches 
kindled,  may  produce  a  slight  difference,  if  one  is  of 
hickory,  another  of  pine.  As  now  thinking  is  the  same 
on  the  one  hand,  but  modified  on  the  other,  so  language 
is,  in  accordance  with  it  every  where  language^  and 
yet  at  the  same  time  it  has  its  peculiar  differences  not 
only  in  different  nations,  but  even  in  its  dialects  in  the  ^ 

same  nation.     An  example  will  illustrate  this.      The 
Greeks  living  in  a  mild  climate,  under  serene  skies,  sur- 

30 


'■  ♦        '    ' 

234  PSYCHOLOGY,  -i 

rounded  by  a  beautiful  country,  and  gifted  by  the  Deity 
with  a  vivid  and  strong  imagination,  had  their  thoughts 
every  where  bent  upon  the  diseovery  and  production  of 
beauty.  They  would  therefore  notice  in  all  they  ob- ;^ 
served,  the  beautiful ;  this  would  strike  them  and  from ' 
this  quality  they  would  name  the  thing,  in  which  they 
discovered  it.  The  Romans,  on  the  other  hand,  of  an 
entirely  different  cast  of  mind,  looked  every  where  for 
the  useful  and  waved  all  considerations  of  beauty  in  its 
favor.  The  Germans  finally,  are  pqculiarly  inclined  to 
speculation,  and  seek  for  the  foundation  of  all  things. 
This  difference  will  exhibit  itself  no  less  in  these  respect- 
ive languages,  than  in  literature  and  art.  The  Greek 
noticing  the  beautiful  motions  of  lightning,  calls  it 
oarpaTTTj ;  the  Roman  attracted  by  the  splendid  light,  names 
itfulgur  ;  the  German  perceives  the  difference  of  this 
motion  from  all  others  and  signifies  it  by  the  term  Blitz. 
Leibnitz,  conceived  the  idea  of  inventing  one  language 
for  all  nations.  Nothing  could  be  more  unfortunate 
than  the  complete  success  of  such  an  undertaking,  if  by 
it — what  Leibnitz  did  not  intend — all  the  other  lan- 
guages would  become  superfluous.  For  as  each  lan- 
guage views  the  same  things  differently,  the  human 
mind  is  left  free  to  express  every  shade  of  difference 
in  its  thought.  This  liberty  we  desire  in  the  same  lan- 
guage, where  the  best  writers  have  their  individual 
style,  so  that  while  they  use  the  general  language,  they 
make  it  assume  a  peculiar  form,  and  with  it  a  peculiar 
freshness.  Every  writer  must  of  course  observe  the 
general  rules  of  his  language,  or  his  works  would  be 
unintelligible.  But  the  general  nature  of  the  language 
will  become  tinged  with  that  of  the  individual,  it  will 
yield  to  it  the  more,  the  more  flexible  it  is,  and  while  in 
the  latter  respect  it  may  demand  a  hermeneutical  ex- 
planation, its  general  nature,  which  is  modified  by  the 
style  of  the  writer  will  make  such  an  explanation po55f6Ze. 
We  frequently  hear  it  asserted,  that  man  was  urged 
by  necessity,  to  form  language,  and  that  this  necessity 
was  that  of  communication.  Though  it  is  true  that 
man  could  not  without  language  be  what  he  is  and 
what  he  ought  to  be,  yet  many  persons  have  been  found 


PSYCHOLOGY.  235 

wild  who  lived  without  language.     The  use  of  language 
rests  therefore  not  on  a  physical  necessity,  so  that  man 
could  not  live  without  it,  as  he  could  not  exist  without 
breathing,  or  without  food.     The  spider  is  driven  by  an 
irresistible  tendency  to  spin  his  web ;  so  man  to  eat, 
but  he  may  live  without  thoughts  or  words.     While  it 
is  time,  however,  that  when  all  the  necessary  conditions 
are  present, — conditions  which  we  have  before  consid- 
ered— his  reason  will  think  and  speak,  it  is  not  only 
impelled  to  do  so  from  necessity,  from  a  mere  desire  to 
communicate,  but    it  delights    in  giving    form  to  its 
thoughts.     A  man  desires  every  where  to  recognize  his 
own  activity  in  that  which  surrounds  him  in  this  desire, 
art  has  in  part  its  origin,  and  fashion  and  ornaments.  The 
joint  desire  to  communicate  our  thoughts  to  others  and  to 
form  them,  originate  the  effort  of  reason  to  think  and  to 
speak.     The  desire  to  form  our  conceptions  produces 
single  words  ;  the  desire  to  communicate  them  to  others 
forms  language  as  such,  or  as  speech.     And  this  again 
must  not  be  understood  mechanically,  as  if  words  were 
first  formed  and  imbodied  in  memory,  as  in  a  diction- 
ary for  future  use  ;  but  words  are  formed  for  the  sake  of 
communication,  so  that  a  word  is  no  sooner  formed 
than  it  enters  into  a  relation  with  others,  and  thus  a  word 
according  to  W.  Yon  Humboldt,  originates  as  much  in 
connection  with  others,  as  a  connection  arises  out  of 
single  words.  Hence  language  is  not  merely  a  compound 
of  words,  but  a  system  of  kindred  conceptions,  all  of  which 
are  brought  in  connection  by  the  forms  of  words,  by 
prefixes,  affixes,  by  compositions,  &c.     The  pleasure 
we   take  in    giving  form  to   all   surrounding   us,   in 
impressing  the  traces  of  our  mind  upon  all  it  touches, 
is  the  self-activity  which   causes  the   child  to  speak, 
while  with  reference  to  the  particular  language  it  is  de- 
pendent on  the  nation  in  which  it  is  born,  and  conse- 
quently receptive  instead  of  spontaneous.  In  this  depen- 
dence an  individual  can  only  have  such  thoughts  as 
one  already  expressed  in  his  language.     Yet  if  this  is 
youthful  and  has  the  root  of  its  life  in  itself,  so  that  new 
sprouts  may  come  forth  from  it,   7iew  thoughts  will 
clothe  themselves  in  new  words.     The  language  of  a 


236 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


nation  will  therefore  exercise  a  considerable  influence 
on  the  thoughts  of  those  who  use  it.  As  language  is  the 
medium  by  which  mind  manifests  itself  to  mind,  by 
which  the  barriers  of  an  isolated  existence  are  torn 
down  and  man  is  drawn  to  man,  it  will  justify  us  in  ma- 
king once  more  a  slight  digression,  before  approaching 
the  elements  of  language.  Language  as  we  have  said, 
is  the  individual  existence  of  a  national  spirit.  Study- 
ing a  foreign  language  we  study  the  spirit  of  the  nation 
whose  language  it  is,  and  thus  our  mind  is  united 
with  that  of  the  nation.  Now  we  may  study  a  lan- 
guage merely  on  account  of  the  thoughts  it  imbodies, 
and  thus  enrich  our  own  mind  ;  for  every  thought,  re- 
ceived by  it  in  ourselves,  is  like  a  spark,  that  kindles  a 
new  light.  But  it  may  be  studied  to  exercise  our  think- 
ing, as  there  is  no  other  science  that  will  teach  us  bet- 
ter, to  think  correctly  and  logically.  For  in  the  first 
place,  grammar  contains  the  categories  of  thinking,  it 
is  full  of  rules  and  laws,  all  of  which  are  those  of  reason. 
Studying  grammar  we  study  the  logic  of  understanding 
in  its  simplest  form.  We  learn  here  to  reduce  the  most 
various  phenomena  to  one  head  or  union,  which  com- 
bines all  of  them  ;  and  if  learning  does  not  consist  in 
merely  receivings  but  in  understanding  and  reproduc- 
ing what  is  given  to  us, — the  exercises  by  which  we 
are  made  to  apply  rules  in  different  ways,  es- 
pecially in  writing,  compositions  and  the  like,  will  make 
us  wholly  master  of  thenri.  Thus  we  learn  to  think 
logically.  Learning  a  language  for  the  purpose  of  ob- 
taining access  to  the  riches  placed  in  it  by  a  nation,  or 
for  the  purpose  of  speaking  it,  however,  differs  widely 
from  making  language  as  such  the  object  of  our  inves- 
tigation. When  we  do  this,  we  study  the  philosophy 
of  language,  and  this  cannot  be  done  without  the  study 
of  the  human  mind.  Here  rules  as  such  are  not  the 
object,  but  their  reason  and  ground^  and  necessity. 
We  know  the  rules,  but  we  desire  to  know  more.  Such 
study  exercises  pure  thinking.  We  want  to  ascertain 
the  nature  of  a  word  not  words,  its  connection  with 
others,  the  nature  and  law  of  sentences,  periods,  speech- 
es, style.    But    words,  sentences,  and  periods,  cannot 


PSYCHOLOGY.  237 

be  perceived  by  the  senses ;  here  we  must  thmk^  if  we 
would  understand  them.  When  I  say  a  pr^onoun  or  a 
verb,  or  a  noun,  1  pronounce  words,  but  at  the  same  time 
in  their  quahfyinsf  distinctions  ;  these  distinctions  can- 
not be  heard  ;  that  by  which  a  pronoun  differs  from  a 
verb,  rests  not  in  the  sound,  but  only  in  the  thought. 
Hence  the  philosophical  grammar  must  be  studied,  that 
which  is  not  satisfied  with  adding  rule  to  rule,  with 
containing  them  only  externally  under  a  common  head 
as  apples,  pears,  potatoes  may  be  put  in  one  ba^  ;  but 
which  exhibits  the  nature  of  all  rules,  and  unites  them 
as  it  finds  them  already  united  by  their  nature.  Again, 
every  word  includes  a  thought ;  the  nature  of  a  word 
may  be  fully  ascertained  by  etymology,  its  contents  not. 
ReflectiHg  on  the  word  in  this  respect,  is  reflecting  on 
the  thought ;  my  feeling  reflects  on  itself  as  expressed 
by  a  word.  This  thought,  however,  not  being  my 
thought,  nor  reflecting  on  it  on  account  of  the  thing  of 
which  it  is  the  thought,  I  can  take  interest  in  it,  only" for  ^ 

its  own  sakCj  and  thus  impartial  and  abstracting  it  from 
every  thing  else,  I  discover  the  true  nature  of  thought. 
It  is  language  then,  that  renders  reason  more  manifest 
than  any  other  science,  for  all  the  conceptions  and 
thoughts,  contained  in  all  the  sciences  of  the  human 
race,  are  imbodied  in  it  as  are  language  itself.  Natural 
sciences  show  likewise  reason,  history  and  philosophy  p 
but  language  is  the  external  reason,  as  reason  is  the  in- 
ternal language.  If  I  wish  to  know  a  nation,  I  must 
know  its  language.  Again,  we  acknowledge  by  these 
views,  that  nothing  can  cultivate  the  mind  more  than 
the  study  of  languages,  and  especially  that  of  ancient 
languages,  the  perfections  of  which  in  every  respect  are 
unrivaled.  It  will  be  necessary  to  speak  a  word  on  the 
elements  of  language  ;  they  are, 

THE  ETYMOLOGICAL  ELEMENTS. 

It  has  been  a  favorite  idea,  ever  since  grammar  has 
been  treated  philosophically,  that  there  exists  in  the 
sound  of  letters  and  words  some  fitness  to  express,  the 
conceptions  placed  in  them. 

This  idea  founds  itself  philosophically  upon  the  fact 


# 


238 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


that  the  sounds  of  all  things  rest  on  their  internal  vibra- 
tions or  trembling  motions,  which  following  certain  de- 
cided polar  directions,  announce  the   true  nature  of 
every  thing  ;  for  nothing  can  vibrate  against  its  suscep- 
tibility of  doing  so.     Water,  fire,  wood  and  metal,  all 
vibrate  differently.     The  nature  of  water  is  without 
strength  in  itself,  without  an  elastic  cohesion,  flowing  as 
if' one  drop  was  in  pursuit  of  another,  without  reaching 
it.  Its  sound  is  therefore  hollow.  Chladni  has  made  the 
discovery,  that  every  vibrating  motion  which  reaches  the 
ear  in  the  form  of  sound,  has  its  corresponding  geomet- 
rical figure  in  space.     This  may  be  seen,  when  sand 
is  scattered  upon  a  pane  of  glass,  or  water  poured  into 
a  cup  and  when  we  then  draw  the  bow  of  a  violin  across 
the  glass,  every  new  stroke  will  call  forth  new  figures,  and 
yet  each  particular  note  will  repeat  the  one  correspond- 
ing to  it.     These  specters  of  sound  indicate  the  nature 
of  the  internal  Vibrations,  and  sounds  may  therefore  be 
said,  to  convey  to  us  an  idea  of  the  nature  of  every 
thing,  and  of  what  the  hand  of  the  Lord  has  written 
upon  all  the  bodies,  that  he  has  created.   The  idea  allud- 
ed to  above,  must  be  explained  by  this  fact.     Words  are 
either  more  or  less  correct,  more  or  less  happy  imita- 
tions of  the  sounds  that  are  peculiar  to  the  pheno- 
mena indicated  by  them,  and  as  every  thing  expresses  its 
nature  by  single  sounds,  according  to  which  man^ames 
it,  man  in  his  language  expresses  the  true  being  of  all 
that  exists.    The  single  sound  is  enough  for  the  animal  ; 
man  stands  in  need  of  a  language  that  will  contain  all 
the  sounds  of  nature.     We  must  remark  here  that  the 
same  desire  which  appears  in  language  as  such,  to  give 
form  and  to  communicate,  strike  us  again  in  the  con- 
stituent parts  of  every  word.     For  the  vowels  open  and 
sonorous,  are  communicative,  while  the  consonants  sur- 
rounding: the  vowels,  and  mute  without  them,  give 
form.     Vowels  then  are  the  product  of  the  desire  of 
communication,  consonants    that  of  our   pleasure  in 
forming  whatever  comes  in  contact  with  us.     Articu- 
lation and  formation  of  sound  is  the  same. — The  opin- 
ion now  is,  that  both  vowels  and  consonants  had  orig- 
inally some  significance,  some  natural  fitness  to  be  the 


PSYCHOLOGY.  239 

signs  of  the  ideas  or  impressions,  to  be  represented  by 
them ;  that  for  instance,  what  is  lovely^  lights  mildj 
would  be  impressed  by  similar  sounds,  as  what  is  rude, 
rouo^h,  harsh,  by  others.     This  fitness  shows  itself, 

First  in  the  vowels. —  U  and  /,  for  instance,  are  indi- 
cative of  deep  emotions  and  clear  and  lively  colors, 
Thus;  Huhu  !  hihi !  roth!  looOposl  rufus.  ^signifies 
pleasure,  in  general  something  handsome  or  great ;  for 
example,  hrahma-  This  significance  of  voicels  is 
beautifully  exhibited  in  the  Persian  imitation  of  the 
nightingale  :  "  Dani  tscheh  guest  mara  an  bulbul  sehhe- 
ri— lu  ehud  tscheh  ademi  kes  i'  sehk  bichaberi." 

Secondly,  in  the  consonants. — These  are 

1.  Altogether  imitative.  Though  produced  by 
articulation,  they  imitate  inarticulate  sounds.  They 
paint  for  the  ear,  they  represent  things  by  closely  imi- 
tating their  sounds.  Of  this  description  are  all  such  as 
express  emotions,  joy  or  pleasures,  disgust  or  mourning, 
love  or  hatred.  Pshaw !  sh  !  tsch  !  dsch  !  These 
sounds,  however,  grow  less  in  number  in  proportion  as 
nations  become  civilized  and  languages  cultivated. 

2.  Symbolical. — Sounds  here  are  not  immediately 
imitative  ;  but  they  attempt  only  to  produce  the  impres- 
sions upon  the  ear,  resembling  that  which  the  object  pro- 
duces upon  the  soul.  The  sound  S,  for  example,  is  used 
in  words  that  express  something  strongs  solid,  fast, 
hence  :  sto  ;  stand  ;  stehen  ;  larnjn  ;  schtha,  in  Sanskrit ; 
stout;  sturdy;  stick  ;  stiff;  stop;  stone;  stubborn; 
steel;  stuff;  sturgeon.  The  Sanskrit  sound  /i,  indi- 
cates that  which  is  meltings  flowing  asunder ,  the  fluid 
in  general,  the  little,  the  similar.     From  it  we  have 

\sino);  X£7ra|w;   \nTaiv(o;    \ida§(o;   Xinapog ;     (fec.  J       light;      Hcht  ; 

leuchten  ;  laut ;  laugh  ;  smile.  The  sound  W,  indicates 
whatever  is  wavering,  restless,  confused  in  its  motio7i 
as  wind  ;  wave  ;  wish  ;  sioim  ;  swing  ;  swift ;  whirls 
pool;  to  ivind  ;  ivenden  ;  wirreu.  The  letter  R  sig- 
nifies the  crooked,  the  rough,  the  rude,  the  irregular, 
separation  ;  as  tremble  ;  shritjali  in  Sanskr. ;  schrei- 
ten  ;  ruehren  ;  trappeln  ;  tre?no  ;  zittern  ;  rennen  ; 
run  ;  rent  ;  rid.  The  letters  b,  p,  and/,  as  they  re- 
quire full  lips  to  be  pronounced,  so  they  are  are  expres- 


240^  PSYCHOLOGY.  .    r 

sive  of  fullness,  as  :  bloom;  blossom  ;  flower  ;  breast; 
brust ;  briost  ;  broad  ;  spront ;  spr lessen  ;flow  ;  blow  ; 
blast ;  bundle  ;  glow.  Plato  in  his  Cratykis  made  some 
attempts  to  discover  the  origin  of  letters  and  words,  yet 
he  did  it  more  in  play,  than  in  earnest,  while  what  he 
says  on  the  origin  of  language  belongs  even  now  to  the 
best,  that  ever  has  been  said  on  this  subject. 

THE  GRAMMATICAL  AND  SYNTACTICAL  ELEMENTS. 

As  it  is  reason  that  produces  language,  and  as  this  reason 
is  in  all  nations  the  same,  only  modified  by  external  cir- 
cumstances and  descent, we  must  discover  in  all  langua- 
ges the  same  logical  elements,  and  thus  only  it  is  possible 
for  us  to  learn  foreign  tongues..  These  logical  elements 
are,  first,  the  verb  ;  secondly,  the  noun  ;  thirdly,  the  ad- 
jective ;  fourthly,  the  preposition,  &>c.  The  nature  of 
sentences,  periods,  and  speech,  is  likewise  the  same  in 
all  languages  ;  for  example,  each  subject  and  predicate 
must  be  connected  by  a  copula,  for  thus  only  can  their 
union  be  asserted.  So  is  this  union  in  all  languages  a 
grammatical  judgment.  When  sentences  are  connect- 
ed, we  obtain  periods,  &c. — One  thing  we  will  yet  state 
here.  Words,  as  we  have  shown  above,  do  not  origin- 
ate singly  and  disconnected,  so  that  we  carried  single 
words  in  our  memory,  and  then  united  them  like  cents 
to  make  a  dollar.  But  words  originate  in  connection 
with  each  other,  in  sentences.  As  one  thing  in  nature 
is  related  to  the  other,  so  man  perceives  nothing  entire- 
ly by  itself.  This  relation  of  things  to  each  other,  will 
determine  the  word  used  by  man  to  express  a  thing. 
If  1  consider,  for  instance,  a  portion  of  land  between  two 
hills,  and  direct  my  attention  principally  to  its  meander- 
ing course,  and  the  rivulet  passing  through  it,  bordered 
with  flowers,  I  call  it  a  dale  ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
direct  my  attention  principally  to  its  usefulness  to  man, 
I  call  it  a  valley.  There  is  the  same  difference  between 
chalice  and  cup.  Hence  the  difference  between  prosaical 
and  poetical  expressions ;  the  former  originates  in  our 
desire  to  express  the  simple  relation  of  things  to  each 
other^the  latter  to  convey  their  relation  to  beauty. 


PSVCHOLOGY.  241 


WRITTEN  LANGUAGE. 


If  languas^e  as  such  is  the  memory  of  our  conceptions, 
writing  is  the  memory  of  language.  By  writing,  lan- 
guage receives  an  existence  in  space,  consequently 
greater  permanency.  The  external  signs  for  mere 
sounds  are  notes  ;  those  for  Words  may  be  hieroglypli- 
ics,  pictures,  images.  These  images  may  be  symbolic- 
al. "  A  lion,  a  sword,  a  man,  if  used  as  pictures,  indi- 
cate what  they  stand  for  ;  or  metaphorical—for  instance 
the  image  of  a  handle  signifies  authority  ;  or  semeiotic- 
al — as  for  instance  a  man  below  a  line,  indicates  that 
he  is  dead ;  or  allegorical — fire  and  a  circle  mean  to 
roast, — or  it  has  characters^  Yet  here  every  change 
of  ideas  makes  a  change  of  characters  necessary,  and 
hence  their  use  is  still  imperfect  and  inconvenient.  The 
Chinese  character  for  old^  for  instance  according  to 
Medhurst,  expresses,  when  turned  a  little  to  the  right 
instead  of  the  left,  to  examine.  The  only  way  of  rep- 
resenting words  in  space,  is  to  represent  the  elements  of 
which  they  consist,  letters  and  syllables.  Hieroglyph- 
ics cannot  express  the  abstract,  they  cannot  convey  by 
signs  or  symbols  an  idea  of  ^ea^?ie55  as  such,  of  good- 
ness, of  beginning  and  end,  cause  and  effect,  (fee.  They 
render  abstract  thinking  wholly  impossible.  This  diffi- 
culty is  removed  by  the  use  of  the  alphabet. 

Language  gives  to  all  our  conceptions  and  through 
them  to  all  things,  a  higher,  a  more  noble  and  more 
permanent  existence.  Children  that  have  yet  no 
names  for  the  things,  of  which  they  have  sensations 
and  perceptions,  do  not  know  them,  and  as  long  as  they 
do  not  know  them,  so  long  all  is  chaotic  for  them. 
They  see  for  instance  the  flamingo,  its  bright  col- 
or, its  partly  black  bill,  the  size  of  its  neck,  the  length 
of  its  slender  legs, — the  flamingo  exists  for  them,  but 
only  for  their  senses.  Black  and  scarlet  are  different 
colors,  and  the  sensations  from  them  are  different,  yet 
they  are  not  separate  and  distinct  to  children.  There 
is  no  mark,  no  particular  quality  in  the  feeling  the  child 
has  of  red,  or  white,  or  blue,  by  which  to  distinguish 

31 


242  PSYCHOLOGY. 

one  from  the  other.  Thus  flamingos  exist,  yet  merely 
in  nature.  Children  form  a  conception  of  them  ;  this 
conception  at  first  is  that  of  a  single  bird,  and  has  all 
contents  of  sensation,  including  the  particular  red,  the 
particular  size  of  the  bird  seen,  and  all  its  peculiarities. 
As  yet  children  need  no  name,  for  their  fancy  is  suffi- 
cient to  call  up  the  single  image.  But  the  conception 
becomes  more  general,  the  particular  contents  of  sensa- 
tion are  dropped,  and  children  seek  for  names.  The 
child  has,  for  instance,  a  conception  of  bread  ;  this  con- 
ception at  first  includes  the  taste,  for  it  comes  fresh  from 
sensation  ;  the  bread  is  of  wheat,  baked  in  a  particular 
way ;  as  this  particular  bread  it  could  not  be  named. 
Now  the  single  conception  of  this  particular  bread  be- 
comes a  general  one,  and  thus  it  not  only  can  be  named, 
but  the  name  is  the  only  medium,  by  which  it  can  be 
communicated.  Bread  is  a  general  name,  whether 
baked  of  wheat,  or  rye,  or  oats,  or  barley,  makes  no  dif- 
ference. So  it  is  with  the  term  apple,  it  stands  for  every 
species  of  apples.  Hence  it  is  correct  to  say,  that  lan- 
guage gives  a  higher  and  more  noble  existence  to  all 
that  it  names.  As  much  as  thinking  is  superior  to 
mere  feeling,  to  sensations  or  perceptions,  so  much  is 
the  existence  of  a  thing  in  language  superior  to  that  in 
mere  nature.  It  is  by  language,  that  whatever  is  in  na- 
ture is  classified,  and  all  confusion  is  removed  from  it. 
As  long  as  the  thing  exists  merely  in  nature,  as  long  as 
we  have  merely  a  sensation  of  it,  so  long  we  have  no 
name  for  it,  and  need  none  because  by  our  single  image 
of  it,  we  can  recall  it.  But  when  we  have  a  ge?ieral 
conception,  a  single  image  is  no  longer  able  to  recall 
it,  we  must  have  a  name.  Again,  to  have  the  thing  as 
it  is  in  nature,  I  must  go  and  see,  and  feel,  or  hear  it. 
The  roaring  of  Niagara,  the  dashing  foam,  the  silvery 
spray,  exist  for  my  ear  and  my  eye  ;  and  to  have  it  ex- 
ist thus,  I  must  be  near  it.  But  after  I  have  formed  a 
conception  of  *it  and  have  a  name  for  it,  it  does  not 
matter  where  I  am,  whether  in  Europe  or  in  Asia,  in 
the  name  Niagara  I  have  the  thing  itself  We  easily 
perceive,  that  here  the  same  relation  exists  between  the 
thing  and  its  name,  that  was  observed  between  the  im- 


r-         PSYCHOLOGY.  243 

age  and  its  object.  In  the  name  I  have  the  thing,  but 
not  as  it  exists  in  nature — for  there  it  would  be  only  for 
my  senses — but  as  it  exists  in  my  conceptions.  To  il- 
lustrate this  I  need  only  say,  that  my  senses  may  per- 
ceive a  ^ree,  but  not  the  species  or  genus  as  such  ;  this 
species  or  genus  is  the  tree  contained  in  my  general 
conception  of  it.  A  tree  existingin  nature  is  for  my 
senses,  but  it  exists  in  my  general  conception  as  it  does 
not  in  nature.  Thinking  of  this  general  tree,  or  tree  as  a 
gemis,  I  need  not  have  an  image  of  a  tree  at  all,  of  its 
roots,  trunk,  branches,  but  my  conception  is  altogether 
general.  This  general  conception  is  not  one  of  a  tree, 
that  blooms  and  grows — such  a  conception  would  be  a 
single  one,  that  of  a  tree  before  my  house.  Of  a  kind 
no  sensation  or  perception  is  possible  ;  we  can  only  have 
a  conception  of  it.  Hence  every  name  is  the  thing,  in 
so  far  as  it  exists  in  our  conceptions.  So  far  all  seems 
correct.  But  as  there  is  a  difference  between  an  object 
and  its  image,  so  there  is  one  between  our  general  con- 
ceptions and  their  names.  The  former  are  wholly  in-- 
ternal ;  names  as  words  written  or  spoken  are  external. 
And  again  our  conceptions  of  a  thing,  of  an  individual, 
species  or  genus  cannot  be  manifold,  but  to  be  correct, 
each  genus  can  have  but  one  corresponding  conce^\\on. 
But  as  regards  the  names  for  these  conceptions  they 
may  be  various.  So  what  we  call  food  may  also  be 
called  nourishment  or  sustenance  ;  the  idea  of  diminu- 
tion may  be  expressed  by  the  words  small^  little^  V^tty, 
shorty  low^  or  rnean.  It  is  true  all  synonymous  words 
have  slight  shades  of  meaning  by  which  they  differ,  yet 
it  is  certain  too  that  one  and  the  same  conception  may 
have  different  names  without  losing  or  gaining  any 
thing  by  it,  as  for  example,  the  same  animal  may  be 
called  giraffe  or  cameleopard.  If  now  we  say  the 
name  is  the  thing  as  it  exists  in  the  sphere  of  concep- 
tion, and  again  if  we  are  constrained  to  admit  that  our 
conceptions  can  choose  any  name,  that  they  are  inter- 
nal, but  names  external ;  that  names  are  but  the  signs 
for  our  conceptions, — we  must  admit  the  existence  of  a 
contradiction.  For  what  the  one  judgment  asserts  the 
other  denies.     This  contradiction  must  be  removed,  and 


244  PSYCHOLOGY. 

the  power  to  remove  it  is  memory.  It  is  the  power  which 
always  unites  the  external  sign  with  the  conception 
for  which  it  stands  ;  it  unites  the  word  and  its  meaning 
so  inseparably,  that  when  the  former  is  pronounced,  the 
latter  is  understood.  This  inseparable  connection  of 
word  and  thought  produces  their  real  identity,  so  that  I 
need  not  ^o  and  see  the  thing  in  order  to  show  it  to 
another,  but  naming  it  is  sufficient ;  for  memory  produ- 
ces a  complete  identity  of  thing  and  name.  Thus  the 
dispute  of  Nominalists  and  Realists  is  removed  by  that 
power,  which  we  have  to  consider — by  memory. 

MEMORY. 

It  may  be  easily  seen,  that  this  power  differs  from  re- 
productive fanpy,  and  that  in  this  difference  it  has  refer- 
ence to  conceptions  and  things,  as  contained  in  names, 
while  reproductive  fancy  recalls  the  image  or  concep- 
tions of  single  things.  It  is  an  aet  of  reproductive  fan- 
cy, when  I  recall  the  image  of  a  friend,  or  of  a  beauti- 
ful landscape,  or  that  of  a  sick-bed  ; — or  in  other  words, 
places,  times,  single  things,  and  persons,  are  the  objects 
of  reproductive  fancy,  while  the  names  and  the  general 
conceptions,  expressed  by  them  are  the  objects  of  memo- 
ry. Memory  is  that  activity,  which  finds  for  every 
general  conceptiori  or  thought  the  appropi^iate  word, 
and  recognizes  in  every  word  the  conception  it  con- 
tains. To  speak  well  demands  a  good  memory;  to 
know  the  thing,  but  not  its  name,  immediately  causes 
confusion.  Membry  might  also  be  defined  thus  :  It  is 
the  power  that  retains  the  contents  placed  in  an  exter- 
nal sign,  consequently  recognizes  a.  general  conception 
in  any  free  perception.  Yet  we  know  that  all  psychol- 
ogists speak  of  a  memory  of  things  as  well  as  of  words,  of 
locality  as  well  as  of  time,  of  numbers,  persons,  and  lan- 
•  guage.  But  the  fact  is -that  they  commingle  two  dis- 
tant activities  of  the  mind,  fancy  and  memory.  These 
pre-suppose  each  other,  they  belong  together,  as  the  ba- 
sis and  that  which  is  founded  upon  it ;  as  the  root  and 
the  trunk  ;yet  ought  they  to  be  kept  distinct;  for  the 
objects  of  the  one  are  not  exactly  the  same  with  those 


PSVCHOLOGY.  245 

of  the  other;  they  exist  in  a  more  refined  manner  in 
memory.  But  even  if  they  were  one  and  the  same,  we 
ought  not  tospeak  of  different  kmds  of  memory,  because 
memory  guided  by  the  interests  which  differetit  persons 
take  in  different  objects,  retains  conceptions  of  one  class 
more  easily  than  those  of  another.  It  would  excite  a 
laugh,  if  it  should  be  said  that  we  had  different  kinds  of 
eyes,  because  the  painter's  eye  finds  it  easy  to  distin- 
guish the  slightest  shades  of  colors  ;  and  that  of  the 
architect  more  readily  perceives  symmetry,  regularity 
and  harmony.  It  is  his  great  interest — on  whatever  that 
may  be  based, — which  constitutes  the  eye  of  the  painter 
different  from  that  of  the  sculptor.  So  it  is  with  memo- 
ry ;  whatever  interests  a  man  he  will  remember  with 
care.  The  interests  of  some  men  will  spread  over  a 
great  many  objects.  Leibnitz  took  not  only  a  great  in- 
terest in  philosophy,  but  also  in  history,  languages,  (fee. 
A  long  life  enables  such  men  to  acquire  an  immense 
knowledge.  Memory  retains  either  without  will  or  by 
virtue  of  it : 

J .  In  the  former  case,  it  is  a  general  conception  that 
unites  all  the  particular  ones  belonging  to  it,  and  when- 
ever it  is  recalled,  these  are  included.  The  term  the- 
ology expresses  such  a  general  conception  ;  it  includes 
the  particular  conceptions  of  exegesis,  hermeneutics, 
critique,  dogmatics,  christian  ethics,  pastoral  theology, 
homileciics,  &c.  The  recalling  of  these  parts  of  the- 
ology is  not  an  act  oi  fancy,  for  all  these  conceptions 
are  without  images, — they  are  the  names  of  thought,  and 
memory,  the  power  that  retains  them,  keeps  off"  all  such 
names,  as  do  not  belong  strictly  under  the  general 
head.  It  will  not  suffer,  for  instance,  that  the  name 
civil  law  be  connected  with  theology,  but  will  point  out 
a  place  for  it  in  jurisprudence.  Fancy  gives  the  images 
as  it  received  them,  memory  exercises  judgment  con- 
cerning the  association  of  its  conceptions. 

2.  In  the  above,  words  are  held  together  by  their  com- 
mon affinity,  internally.  The  same  is  the  case,  when 
noun  and  adjective  are  joined  by  a  copula,  when  words 
are  brought  together  by  the  sense,  to  be  expressed  by 
them,  by  meter,  alphabet,  by  grammatical  and  lexico' 


240  PSYCHOLOGY. 

graphical  connections.  But  when  there  is  ho  objective 
connection  whatever  between  the  different  words,  and 
when  we  nevertheless  desire  to  hold  them  together, 
then  it  is  our  will  that  must  determine  us  to  do  so  and 
determine  their  connection,  while  our  intellect  is  the 
power  that  enables  us  to  retain  them.  The  connec- 
tion of  the  words  here  is  an  entirely  mechanical  one, 
wholly  external,  wholly  brought  about  by  the  will  of 
man  and  preserved  by  his  intellect.  This  demands 
little  or  no  thinkings  for  the  meaning  of  the  words  is 
not  observed  here.  I  send  a  boy  to  a  store,  to  fetch  salt, . 
sugar,  snufF,  and  also  a  piece  of  linen,  a  quire  of  paper, 
a  pound  of  nails,  and  other  things.  There  is  certainly 
nothing  that  sugar  and  nails,  or  linen  and  paper  have 
in  common,  and  which  would  bind  the  one  to  the  other  ; 
it  is,  therefore,  the  power  of  intellect,  that  keeps  them 
together  not  by  reflection  on  them,  but  by  will  and  the 
simple  power  of  the  mind,  as  it  does  not  think  at  all. 
Hence  it  is  that  young  persons  who  think  less,  commit 
with  the  greatest  ease  to  memory,  and  hence  too,  that 
the  false  prejudice  is  so  current,  that  men  of  very  acute 
judgment  have  generally  a  weak  memory,  and  yet  judg- 
ment, in  order  to  be  acute  must  have  materials  to  judge 
of,  and  how  can  it  get  them  without  memory  1  The 
strongest  judgment,  if  memory  is  weak,  will  constantly 
make  mistakes,  never  find  the  right  word,  the  right 
comparison,  the  right  fact  and  it  will  constantly  have  to 
correct  itself  even  in  its  common  language,  for  it  will 
always  seek  for  the  right  word,  and  yet  miss  it.  The 
spirit  of  ages,  that  makes  things  fashionable,  or  not, 
has  exercised  its  irresistible  power  even  on  the  faculties 
of  the  mind.  There  was  a  time  when  memory  was 
neglected,  when  especially  in  schools  children  were 
taught  to  reason  only,  and  when  the  mechanical  memo- 
ry was  despised.  The  disciples  of  Pythagoras  had  to 
be  silent  for  four  years,  and  o^ly  to  receive  and  listen. 
Pythagoras  thought  no  doubt,  that  to  speak  rationally 
andintelligently  on  asubject,a  student  ought  first  to  have 
made  himself  acquainted  with  it ;  and  to  do  so  he  ought  to 
have  learned  to  abandon  all  preconceived  and  immature 
ideas,  and  to  listen  with  obedience  to  those  of  his  teacher. 


PSYCHOLOGY.  247 

This  is  right.  The  mind  must  learn  obedience  as  well 
as  the  will,  or  else  it  will  have  no  doctrine  pure,  but  al- 
ways commingle  its  own  notions  with  it.  Disciplirie 
of  mind  is  the  true  basis  of  study.  The  mechanical 
memory  ought,  therefore,  to  be  much  exercised  ;  for  by 
it  the  judgment  will  gain  materials  for  its  reasoning. 

Formerly,  memory  was,  and  at  present  is  the  most 
fashionable  faculty  of  the  mind.  Historical  learning, 
the  union  of  all  past  experience  in  our  memory,  is  the 
most  valued  science,  and  this  rests  principally  on 
memory.  Yet  this  view  mistakes  the  term,  science. 
Not  he  who  has  collected  a  great  number  of  facts  and 
knows  their  elements  of  usefulness,  and  how  to  apply 
them,  is  the  scientific  man.  For  every  man  has  some 
such  knowledge,  and  yet  we  would  not  say  that  all  men 
are  men  of  science.  Such  a  definition  of  science  ren- 
ders the  term  science  relative,  like  that  of  riches.  Ac- 
cording to  it  all  men  of  a  country  are  scientific  ;  they 
form  a  pyramid,  and  while  the  most  scientific  becomes 
its  head,  those  that  are  least  so  have  to  form  the  base, 
and  all  the  rest  come  to  stand  between  according  to 
their  greater,  or  less  amount  of  knowledge.  Yet  the 
accumulation  of  facts  is  not  sciejice^  it  is  merely  learning. 
Learning  may  place  value  upon  facts,  and  their  cor- 
rectness ;  science  requires  the  form  and  spirit  of  these 
facts  ;  learning  is  satisfied  with  the  focts  and  their  ex- 
ternal mechanical  connection,  science  demands  their 
leading  principle,  their  internal  union,  and  hence  it  is 
that  we  may  speak  of  a  scientific  spirit,  but  not  of  a 
learned  spirit.  Science  has  therefore,  two  sides,  it  has  an 
internal  one,  a  soul,  a  union,  a  penetrating  principle,  on 
which  all  the  facts  belonging  to  it  must  rest ;  and  again  it 
has  an  external  one,  which  spreads  itself  over  a  large 
surface  and  daily  increases,  for  experience  is  added  to  ex- 
perience. If  it  demands  memory  to  acquire  the  external 
materials  of  a  science  in  our  power,  judgment  is  required, 
and  a  nohle  spirit,  to  enter  into  the  life  of  a  science,  and  to 
perceive  how  it  pervades  and  animates  all.  Judgment  and 
memory,  the  spontaneous  and  receptive  activities  ought 
therefore  to  be  exercised  in  an  equal  degree ;  and  neith- 
er at  the  expense  of  the  other. — In  conclusion  we  must 


248  PSYCHOLOGY. 

speak  a  word  with  regard  to  Mnemonics,  or  the  art  of 
^exercising  the  memory. 

No  doubt  the  memory  may  be  strengthened:  this, 
however,  is  not  so  much  the  aim  of  Mnemonics,  as  by 
certain  means  to  facilitate  the  recollection  of  a  particu- 
lar name.  I  desire,  for  instance,  a  person  who  knows 
mythology,  but  not  geography,  to  remember  the  name 
Athens,  and  tell  him  to  recall  the  name  of  the  Greek 
goddesses,  and  Athena  will  certainly  remind  him  of 
Athens.  Yet  we- easily  see  that  as  I  must  7'etain  in  my 
memory  the  means  by  which  to  remember  something 
else,  I  only  double  my  labor,  fpr  I  may  as  well  remem- 
ber the  thing  at  once,  as  the  means  which  recalls  it. 

Memory  may,  however,  be  truly  strengthened  by 
continued  exercise.  How  this  is  possible  and  how 
it  is  to  be  understood  has  been  beautifully  illustrated 
by  the  nature  of  the  magnet.  This  activity  in  the  first 
place  slumbers  in  all  kinds  of  iron,  and  maybe  called 
forth  by  an  appropriate  external  influence  oh  it.  The 
light  of  the  sun  may  awaken  it,  the  rays  of  electricity, 
the  stroke  of  the  hammer,  but  especially  on  already 
magnetized  iron,  when  drawn  across  in  certain  direct- 
tions.  We  then  see  that  it  is  the  realized  magnetic  ac- 
tivity in  the  one  iron,  which  elicits  the  possible  magnet- 
ic activity  of  the  other.  The  thus  awakened  activity 
of  the  magnet  is  strengthened  by  exercise,  and  disap- 
pears again  for  it  is  not  used.  To  strengthen  it  we 
must  bring  it  in  contact  with  other  iron,  and  lay  it  for 
this  purpose  in  iron  filings.  Now  the  question  is  :  How 
can  it  thus  be  strengthened  ?  As  the  magnetic  activity, 
when  once  awakened,  has  the  power  to  awaken  that 
which  still  slumbers,  so  this,  when  once  active  will  have 
the  same  power  :  it  must,  therefore  react  upon  the 
magnetic  power,  by  which  it  was  elicited  and  strength- 
en it,  in  the  same  degree  that  it  was  itself  acted  upon. 
It  will  excite  as  it  has  been  excited  ;  it  will  strengthen 
as  it  has  been  strengthened  ;  for  it  is  one  and  the  same 
activity  that  awakens  and  that  has  been  awakened.      , 

If  we  apply  this  to  memory  we  may  say,  that  all  the 
conceptions  which  we  receive  by  memory,  are  the  pro- 
ductions of  our  thinking  power  j  but  as  they  are  the 


PSYCHOLOGY.  249 

contents  of  words  we  must  reproduce  them,  in  order  to 
have  them  as  conceptions.  Or  these  conceptions  rest 
in  names ;  but  language  does  neither  speak,  nor  under- 
stand itself;  they  are  therefore  like  the  slumbering  mag- 
net in  the  unmagnetized  iron.  Our  mind  approaches 
them,  and  receives  them  by  breathing  the  breath  of  life 
into  them  :  being  thus  received,  and  as  our  mind  acted 
ed  upon  them,  so  their  life  will  act  upon  our  mind  and 
strengthen  it,  as  the  magnetized  iron  strengthens 
that  by  which  its  latent  power  has  been  roused.  It  is 
the  same  mental  activity  that  produces  the  conceptions 
and  places  them  in  names,  and  which  again  receives 
them  by  recalling  them.  The  former  might  be  called  the 
productive^  the  latter  the  reproductive  memory.  From 
all  this  it  must  follow,  that  as  the  body  is  strengthened 
by  appropriate  food,  so  is  the  memory :  that  the  many 
conceptions  and  ideas  are  all  of  them  filled  with  the  na- 
ture of  our  own  intellect,  and  that  as  intellect  is  power, 
they  will  strengthen  memory  in  proportion  as  many  or 
few  are  received  by  it. 

In  conclusion  we  may  remark  that,  however  differ- 
ent and  manifold  may  be  the  objects  committed  to  mem- 
ory, its  union  will  remain  the  same.  As  the  globule  of 
quick  silver,  to  which  is  added  many  other  globules,  in- 
creases in  size  and  bulk,  and  yet  remains  a  perfect 
sphere,  so  it  is  with  memory.  Memory  in  this  respect 
may  be  compared  to  a  monad  which  constantly  attracts 
other  monads,  and  thus  becoming  conscious  of  all  of 
them,  strengthens  itself  and  reigns  over  them  according 
to  its  own  pleasure. 


32 


250 


CHAPTER  III. 


ON  PURE  THINKING. 

The  chapter  now  before  us  is  one  of  the  most  diffi- 
cult in  Mental  Philosophy.  Its  object  is  to  ascertain 
the  nature  of  pure  thinking  as  such  ;  it  must  therefore 
abstract  from  thinking,  as  it  is  subjective,  my  or  your 
thinking,  and  it  must  look  away  from  the  objects  of  our 
thoughts,  whether  material  as  the  sun  and  moon  ;  or 
life,  as  that  of  plants  and  animals,  or  man  :  we  must  in 
a  word  direct  our  attention  merely  to  thinking  as  such. 

This  is  extremely  difficult  and  cannot  be  effected 
without  much  effort.  Most  persons  employ  their  ex- 
ternal senses  more,  than  their  internal  thinking  power, 
and  in  proportion  as  one  mental  activity  is  exclusively 
exercised,  it  will  become  more  acute ;  but  the  others 
will  grow  weak.  The  feeling  of  ability  and  skill  is 
pleasant,  and  man  delights,  therefore,  more  in  the  in- 
vestigation of  objects  in  which  he  can  enjoy  the 
feeling  of  power,  than  in  such  as  demand  effort,  and 
remind  him  that  he  has  yet  something  to  learn.  Add 
to  this  the  aversion  felt  by  all  to  well  disciplined  think- 
ing— for  all  of  us  like  to  have  our  own  thoughts  and 
opinions  on  subjects — and  also,  that  we  sooner  have 
sensations  and  conceptions  than  pure  thoughts,  that  we 
must  consequently  with  considerable  labor  raise  our- 
selves into  the  region  of  pure  thought ;  that  language 
too,  is  better  calculated  to  express  general  conceptions 
than  pure  thoughts  ;  and  especially  that  it  must  bor- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  261 

row  the  words  by  which  to  convey  the  highest  thoughts 
from  fancy  and  imagination,  and  that  therefore  the  same 
word  may  serve  the  lowest  and  highest — and  we  shall 
find  it  natural  that  so  few  only  should  take  delight  in  a 
question  like  the  one  before  us.  And  yet  we  cannot 
dismiss  it,  but  must  request  our  readers  to  follow  us 
with  patience.  The  question,  What  is  pure  thinking  7 
must  be  solved.  Thinking  is  the  true  basis  of  all  our 
knowledge,  for  until  we  have  penetrated  our  concep- 
tions by  thought,  until  we  know  their  nature,  their 
ground,  their  connection  with  each  other,  we  have 
neither  knowledge  nor  science.  The  knowledge  that 
in  the  year  480  B.  0.,  the  battle  at  Salamis  was  ifought, 
is  disconnected,  as  it  stands  here,  neither  solid,  nor 
valuable  ;  but  when  I  by  thinking  discover  the  secret 
causes  that  led  to  it,  and  perceive  the  influence  which 
it  had  upon  the  national  cultivation  of  Greece,  my 
knowledge  becomes  valuable.  I  may  have  a  conception 
of  blue,  but  unless  I  can  show  its  origin  and  nature,  I 
have  no  knowledge  of  it.  So  pointing  to  the  blue  in 
the  sky,  and  defining  it  to  be  "  darkness  seen  through 
light,"  are  very  different.  Again,  as  thinking  must  pene^ 
trate  all  our  conceptions,  and  the  contents  of  our  sensa- 
tions and  perceptions,  so  it  must  show  their  relations  to 
each  other.  Every  object  has  a  number  of  distinctions 
in  itself;  these  enter  into  our  conceptions;  but  these 
distinctions  as  contained  in  our  conceptions,  stand  be- 
side each  other,  and  are  not  known  in  this  common 
origin  :  thus  the  thing  is  one,  and  yet  it  is  many. 
This  is  a  contradiction  which  our  conception  does  not 
notice,  or  if  noticed,  it  does  not  remove  it.  Thinking 
perceives  the  one  in  the  manifold,  and  again  the  mani- 
fold as  one.  God  is  just,  and  is  merciful ;  these  are 
two  qualities,  which  when  penetrated  by  thought,  have 
one  and  the  sam^e  nature,  so  that  justice  is  mercy,  and 
mercy,  justice.  And  finally,  thinking  must  show  the 
necessity  of  things,  or  show  that  a  thing  must  be  as  it  is. 
This  it  can  do  only  by  exhibiting  its  ground  and  gen- 
eral reason. 

From  all  this  it  will  follow,  that  though  we  should 
at  first  feel  indifferent  to  the  present  question,  we  shall 


252 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


take  an  interest  in  it,  as  soon  as  we  desire  to  treat  a  sci- 
ence logically,  or  to  solve  different  questions,  or  to  remove 
doubts  and  scruples,  ignorance  and  error.  To  free  our- 
selves from  them,  neither  the  decisions  of  an  infallible 
church,  nor  the  majority  of  votes  taken  on  such  subjects, 
nor  any  external  object,  as  the  magnet  that  may  guide 
t^e  sailor,  or  a  polar  star,  will  suffice.  Thinking  alone 
will  avail.  Bat  if  I  do  not  know  the  medium  by 
which  to  remove  an  evil,  or  by  which  to  acquire  a  good, 
how  can  I  make  a  proper  use  of  it  ?  And  again,  if  I  de- 
sire to  know  myself,  but  do  not  know  my  hghtest  pow- 
er, how  can  I  pretend  to  be  acquainted  with  my  mind  ? 
Men  like  Plato,  and  Aristotle  ;  Cudworth  and  Locke  ; 
Leibnitz,  Kant,  and  Hegel ;  Spinoza  and  Des  Cartes, 
have  therefore  not  hesitated  to  bestow  much  time  and 
labor  on  the  subject  of  our  present  chapter,  and  what 
man  ought  not  to  be  willing  to  bestow  at  least  some  at- 
tention on  that  noblest  of  all  powers  within  him  which 
he  daily  uses?     We  shall  therefore, 

1.  Inquire,  How  ifAm^*^^^^  differs  from  the  other  fac- 
ulties of  the  mind  ? 

If  we  compare  thinking  with  sensation  and  percep- 
tion we  shall  find  that  both  are  activities ,  and  that 
in  this  respect  they  are  the  same.  But  sensation  is 
an  activity,  whose  nature  is  receptive  ;  it  receives  im- 
pressions, and  receives  them  as  they  are  made  upon  our 
organs.  The  activity,  as  sensation  or  perception  is 
therefore  wholly  determined  by  the  object  felt;  it  must 
feel  the  object  as  it  presents  itself,  and  must  receive  an 
impression  as  it  flows  forth  from  it.  It  is  consequently 
an  activity,  that  is  not  in  the  least/ree.  Conception  is 
also  an  activity,  but  one  that  differs  from  sensation  or 
perception,  for  it  is  not  merely  rece/>^ive,  but  freeing  sen- 
sation more  or  less  from  its  immediate  contents,  transfer- 
ring them  into  space  and  time,  and  producing  the  images 
of  their  objects,  it  is  a  form-giving  and  productive  activ- 
ity. In  my  conceptions  I  am  therefore  more  free,  than 
in  my  sensations,  more  self-active,  more  independent  of 
the  objects  the  images  of  which  I  conceive.  Thinking 
hbwever,  differs  both  from  sensation  and  conception. 
Like  them  it  is  ^n  activity,  but  an  activity  having  both 


PSYCHOLOGY.  253 

for  its  medium,  and  impossible  without  them.  Peeling 
is  possible  without  thinking,  and  so  are  sensations  : 
thinking  demands  feeling,  sensation,  and  conceptions 
as  the  fruit  demands  the  preceding  stages  of  growth. 
What  kind  of  an  activity  then  is  thinking  7  That  ae- 
tivity  which  ^eneraZJ^e^.  And  here  we  leave  this  de- 
finition, expecting  to  take  it  up  again  at  another  place. 
To  make  the  above  more  clear  we  ask,  What  is  the 
object,  and  what  are  the  contents  of  pure  think- 
ing? 

By  comparing  them  with  those  of  the  preceding  activ- 
ities of  the  mind,  we  may  here  also  render  our  subject 
more  generally  intelligible.  The  objects  of  our  sensa- 
tions or  perceptions  are  al  ways  someth  ing  single,  contain- 
ed in  a  certain  place,  and  existing  in  a  certain  time.  Be- 
yond this  singleness  the  objects  of  sensation  cannot  ex- 
tend. IseeasinglesheepjOr  many  at  atime;  but, however 
many  they  are,  they  are  only  present  to  my  eye  each 
as  a  single  one.  Conception  receives  its  objects  from 
sensation ;  it  forms  the  contents  of  sensation,  and  no- 
ticing that  which  many  objects  have  in  common  with 
each  other,  it  forms  a  more  or  less  general  image,  one 
that  needs  no  longer  a  sensual  existence,  though  it  was 
gained  from  it.  The  object  of  sensation  and  that  of 
conception  enter  into  our  thinking,  but  exist  in  it  as 
they  do  not  in  the  former.  A  few  examples  will  illus- 
trate this:  Man  as  an  individual  may  be  the  immedi- 
ate object  of  my  sensation  ;  I  see  him,  I  feel  him,  I  hear 
his  voice.  The  same  man  may  be  the  object  of  my 
conception,  yet  not  the  latter  without  having  been  pres- 
ent to  my  senses.  As  an  object  of  my  conception  he 
may  exist  in  it  merely  as  an  individual ;  as  he  lives,  and 
moves  about,  as  he  eats  and  drinks.  But  I  may  have 
formed  a  conception  of  him  as  belonging  to  a  certain 
nation.  As  the  object  of  this  conception  he  is  no  longer 
merely  a  single  one,  but  of  a  more  general  character, 
he  is  an  American,  because  both  the  external  features, 
common  to  all  Americans,  and  the  spirit  and  manner  of 
thinking  are  represented  by  him.  Thus  he  is  the  ob- 
ject of  my  conception  as  he  cannot  be  the  object  of  my 
sensation.     As  the  object  of  my  thinking  he  is  neither 


254  PSYCHOLOGY. 

a  mere  individual,  nor  belonging  to  a  particular  nation, 
but  he  is  man.  This  is  his  true  being  ;  as  such  he  can 
neither  be  the  object  of  sensation,  nor  of  conception,  it 
is  only  pure  thought,  that  can  conceive  the  idea  oi  hu- 
manity. For  humanity  is  that  generality  that  per- 
vades all  nations,  and  all  individuals,  that  will  survive 
all  the  nations  of  the  present  time,  and  continue  to  live 
in  all  the  following  generations.  Or  to  give  another  ex- 
ample,— Nature  produces  by  crystalization  the  icicle  and 
the  diamond  ;  by  organization  the  moss  and  the  beauti- 
ful calla ;  by  animalization  the  toad,  and  the  proud  deer 
of  the  forest.  These  productions  of  nature  are  and  may 
be  perceived  by  our  senses.  But  as  far  as  they  are  ac- 
cessible to  our  senses  they  will  pass  away.  The  calla 
of  which  I  had  once  a  sensation  may  exist  in  my  con- 
ception, in  my  reproductive  fancy.  But  when  I  place 
it  under  its  species,  and  this  under  its  kind,  I  think  and 
judge,  and  the  object  of  my  thinking  is  no  longer  the 
single  calla,  as  it  exists  for  my  sensation,  nor  the  image 
of  that  calla  as  it  was  conceived  by  me, — it  is  the  species, 
the  kind,  that  do  not  exist  in  nature  in  a  particular 
form  or  shape,  having  a  peculiar  color,  or  size  ;  but  be- 
come manifest  only  in  individual  beings.  The  kind,  or 
genus  is  the  true  generality  and  necessity  of  all  the  in- 
dividuals belonging  to  it,  and  while  the  individuals  may 
be  the  objects  of  sensations  and  conceptions,  kind  as 
such  pan  only  be  the  object  of  tho2ight.  Or  finally,  1 
have  a  conception  of  a  knife,  an  ax,  of  scissors,  saw, 
and  other  instruments ;  as  such  my  conceptions  have 
their  corresponding  objects  in  space  or  time.  But  now 
I  place  all  of  them  under  the  general  term,  instrument, 
by  which  to  sever,  to  dissect,  &c.;  and  this  idea  I  again 
place  under  that  of  means  and  end,  and  thus  all 
the  single  conceptions  and  their  corresponding  objects 
are  gone,  and  that  which  is  left  is  their  general  charac- 
ter, or  that  which  makes  each  one  of  them  an  instru- 
ment. The  thought  of  instrument  is  identical  with  the 
instrument;  for  this  has  no  existence  whatever  inde- 
pendent of  the  thought,  and  yet  it  is,  it  has  an  energy, 
for  by  it  as  the  general  idea  all  instruments  are  pro- 
duced. 


PSYCHOLOGY.  255 

Now  it  is  easy  to  understand  that  the  objects  of  sen- 
sations and  conceptions  are  also  those  of  thinking  ;  but 
while  those  of  sensation  exist  wholly  in  nature,  and 
while  those  of  conception,  though  more  general,  are 
still  only  collective^  those  of  thinking  areivholli/  generalj 
and  as  such  have  no  existence  independent  of  thinking. 
Yet  they  truly  exist  ;  they  are  not  a  mere  abstraction  ; 
they  are  the  pure  being  and  nature  of  individual  things, 
their  soul,  and  life.  The  abstract  is  lifeless  ;  it  has  no 
being  ;  the  general,  the  genns,  the  species,  on  the  other 
hand  is.  Morality  as  something  abstract  exists  only  in 
my  head,  and  nowhere  else :  but  morality,  as  that 
which  is  the  general  in  all  moral  actions,  is  and  is  their 
general  nature.  To  make  this  clear  we  would  state  it 
thus  : — Morality  in  its  generality  is  the  agreement  of 
human  will  with  the  divine  law.  This  human  will 
does  not  exist  in  the  abstract,  but  it  particularizes  itself 
and  becomes  national  will,  and  thus  morality  in  par- 
ticular is  the  agreement  of  the  national  will,  as  expressed 
by  its  history,  laws,  literature,  &c.,  with  the  divine  will. 
But  the  national  will  cannot  act  as  such,  it  must  have 
its  organs,  and  these  are  the  single  citizens  of  a  nation, 
and  hence  morality  is  individualized,  expresses  itself  by 
the  single  actions  of  single  persons,  and  may  be  said  to 
be  the  agreement  of  our  personal  will,  with  the  divine, . 
so  that  we  observe  all  duties  towards  ourselves,  our  fel- 
low-men, and  God,  because  they  are  the  expressions  of 
the  divine  will.  Thus  tbe  general  morality  is  realized 
in  that  of  the  individual,  and  while  otherwise  it  would 
be  merely  abstract  it  thus  becomes  concrete.  Or  I  say, 
that  one  of  the  qualities  of  the  divine  law  is  its  gejierali- 
ty.  How  is  this  to  be  understood  ?  Is  this  generality 
merely  abstract  7  The  generahty  of  the  law  is  that 
power  which  alone  constitutes  every  other  command- 
ment a  law,  and  without  which  there  could  be  none. 
This  general  law  lives,  therefore,  in  all  individual  laws, 
and  becomes  manifest  by  them.  No  one  feels  himself 
morally  obligated  to  fulfil  the  mere  arbitrary  will  of  a 
despot :  it  has  not  the  law  as  its  soul,  and  hence  cannot 
bind  us  to  obey  it  by  external  force. 

Thinking,  then,  being  the  same  as  generalizing,  seeks 


256  PSYCHOLOGY. 

every  where  for  the  true  nature  of  things,  for  their  gen- 
erality and  necessity,  for  their  real  and  genuine  truth. 
This  does  not  consist  in  the  perishable  part,  which  may 
be  seen  with  the  senses  ;  but  in  that,  which  while  the 
individual  dies,  continues  to  live.  It  is  the  Dryad  of 
the  Romans,  for  instance,  which  as  the  soul  of  the  tree 
passes  into  another,  animating  it,  when  the  one  in 
which  it  lived  is  hewn  down.  The  object  of  thought, 
therefore,  is  not  a  single  thing,  not  this,  or  that ;  nor  is 
it  a  collection  of  things,  or  something  they  have  in  com- 
mon with  each  other,  but  it  is  the  general  nature  of  all 
those  individuals  through  which  that  nature  flows,  and 
that  are  internally  united  by  it.  - 

If  we  consider  that  all  nature  is  full  of  reason,  that 
every  being  is  the  expression  of  it,  then  we  must  ac- 
knowledge, that  what  we  thus  perceive  by  thinking,  is 
reason  itself,  or  flesh  of  our  flesh,  and  bone  of  our  bone. 
The  laws  of  reason  and  nature  are  the  expressions  of 
the  same  divine  will,  and  they  difier  only  by  their  ob- 
jects, and  by  the  fact  that  in  nature  they  \vork  uncon- 
sciously but  in  man  with  his  consciousness.  The  law 
of  gravity  which  attracts  all  particles  to  a  common  cen- 
ter, and  the  law  according  to  which  in  times  of  danger 
all  citizens  incline  to  one  great  individual,  as  for  in- 
stance, to  Washington,  is  the  same. 

Unwilling  to  leave  the  present  subject  in  the  least 
dark,  we  will  add  yet  a  few  words. — The  objects  of 
sensation  or  perception  are  something  material;  the 
contents  of  conception  are  images,  however  they  may 
be  generalized  ;  language  and  memory  can  do  in  part 
without  these  images.  But  the  objects  and  contents  of 
thought  are  wholly  without  imagery.  The  living  tree 
may  be  seen  and  conceived  as  an  image ;  but  life  as 
such  has  no  image.  So  it  is  with  the  thoughts  of  jus- 
tice, holiness,  virtue,  truth  ;  with  the  thoughts  of  cause 
and  effect,  ground  and  consequence.  They  do  not  ex- 
ist as  such  in  space,  and  yet  no  one  would  deny  their 
existence.  Here  it  is,  where  Nominalists  and  Realists 
must  cease  their  opposition,  and  discovering  each  their 
one-sidedness  they  must  unite ;  for  when  I  say  holi- 
ness, this  thought  has  in  its  generality  of  course  no  cor- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  257 

responding  external  object^  and  yet  it  cannot  be  with- 
out an  object,  or  it  would  be  an  empty  thought.  What 
then  is  its  object  ?  The  thought  of  holiness  itself. 
This  then  is  the  last  and  principal  difference  between 
feeling,  sensation,  conception,  and  thinking — that  feel- 
ing cannot  become  objective  to  itself,  nor  sensation,  nor 
conception,  or  with  other  words,  feeling  cannot  feel  it- 
self, nor  can  sensation,  or  conception  perceive  them- 
selves:  but  thinking  has  this  power'of  doubling  itself, 
it  may  become  objective  to  itself,  perceive  itself,  think  of 
and  reflect  on  itself  As  thinking  has  the  power  to  ren- 
der itself  objective  to  itself,  so  it  is  the  power  that  can 
reflect  on  every  thing  else,  on  the  lowest  and  the  high- 
est, on  the  rudest  and  the  most  refined. 

2.  The  contents  of  our  sensation  are  dark,  and  little 
understood,  before  our  thinking  penetrates  them ;  and 
so  the  contents  of  our  conceptions  are  not  perfectly 
transparent.  But  those  of  thinking  are  clear  and  lucid. 
Thinking  is  a  simple^  undisturbed^  quiet  activity ; 
"  cogitatio  est  actio  sibi  perspicua,  et  in  se  continua." 
It  flows  without  interruption,  and  is  every  where  per- 
fectly clear  to  itself  Feeling  is  a  tremblijig  motion  in 
itself;  sensation  is  a  dark  and  confused  iveaving  of  the 
mind  ;  the  act  by  which  we  become  conscious  of  the 
world  and  of  ourselves  may  be  called  an  awakening. 
But  thinking  is  a  flowing  activity,  perspicuous  to  itself 
and  conscious  of  itself,  and  known  to  itself  in  everyone 
of  its  pulsations.  Its  symbol  in  nature  is  the  ether. 
Ether  fills-all  space,  and  yet  is  transparent:  it  is  con- 
stantly in  motion,  and  yet  this  motion  is  not  perceptible 
to  the  eye,  for  it  is  always  equal,  quiet,  and  undisturbed. 
The  air  is  thick,  not  clear,  nor  transparent :  it  is  cloudy, 
and  blue  or  gray  of  color.  But  the  ether  is  clear,  color- 
less, and  pure  ;  of  unfathomable  depth,  open  to  the  eye, 
but  mysterious  to  the  understanding.  In  the  air  it 
storms  ;  its  motions  are  not  quiet  and  flowing,  but  cross- 
ing each  other.  Again  ;  ether  is  contained  in  all  that 
has  existence,  whether  animate,  or  inanimate,  elementa- 
ry, or  concrete.  Art  may,  therefore,  extract  ether  from 
every  thing,  because  it  is  in  every  thing.  .So  it  is  with 
thinking.     That  which  truly  is  in  nature,  are  the  di- 

33 


258  PSYCHOLOGY, 

vine  thoughts,  the  divine  laws,  and  all  the  rest  is  but 
matter ;  that  which  truly  is  in  history,  are  likewise  the 
thoughts  and  will  of  nations,  that  have  realized  them- 
selves in  actions,  customs,  institutions,  art,  &c.  By 
thinking  we  may  extract  those  thoughts  in  nature  and 
history,  as  by  art  we  .may  gain  the  ether  contained  in  all 
things.  We  need  not  carry  our  thoughts  into  nature 
and  loan  them  to  it ;  they  are  there  and  all  we  have  to 
do  is  to  open  our  eyes  and  perceive  them.  Reason  like 
ether  is  every  where,  but  we  cannot  discover  it  by  think- 
ing, as  a  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  a  Kepler,  a  Cuvier. 

Thinking  as  this  uninterrupted  flow,  as  this  general-? 
izing  activity,  is  as  yet  without  distinctions  ;  it  is  not 
without  contents,  for  being  perspicuous  to  itself,  it  has 
itself  for  its  contents,  it  is  the  light  that  sees  itself.  But 
thinking  is  an  activity,  that  according  to  the  divine  laws 
contained  in  it  produces  distinctions,  and  these  are, 

First,  Comprehension  or  Apprehension,  Think- 
ing in  this  form  unites  the  manifold  in  one,  but  accord- 
ing to  its  internal  nature.  And  this  nature  consists  in 
this — every  single  individual  belongs  to  a  species,  and 
through  it  to  its  kind.  The  kind  is  the  generality,  the 
species  the  particularity,  and  the  individual  the  singu- 
larity. The  general  nature  specifies  and  individualizes 
itself  by  its  own  power.  The  comprehension  consists 
in  this  trichotomy.  It  comprehends  the  individual  in 
the  species,  the  species  in  the  genus,  and  the  genus  in 
the  individual.  There  is  nothing  arbitrary  in  this  ac- 
tivity, nothing  depending  on  our  will  or  j)leasure  ;  it  is 
thinking  in  the  form  of  comprehension  or  understand- 
ing, that  by  its  own  laws  is  necessarily  thus  active,  and 
that  discovers  the  same^laws  in  the  activity  of  nature. 

Secondly,  Judgment.  By  judgment  thinking  ren- 
ders the  contents  of  comprehension  more  distinct,  by 
separating  them,  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other 
keeping  them  united  by  a  copula.  The  term  lion^  is  a 
comprehension,  when  I  perceive  the  genus  in  the  indi- 
vidual lion.  When  I  say,  "  this  is  a  lion,"  I  have  in 
the  term  this,  a  single  lion  in  view,  a  lion  that  is  per- 
haps before  me  in  a  menagerie,  but  in  the  term  lion  the 
whole  class  or  genus  of  lions,  and  thus  separating  the 


PSYCHOLOGY.  259 

individual  from  the  genus,  I  nevertheless  keep  them 
connected  by  the  copula  is,  and  thus  show  their  identi- 
ty. Judging  I  do  not  comprehend  the  one  in  the  other, 
or  the  manifold  in  one,  but  subordinate  the  one  to  the 
other,  or  analyze.  Both  are  and  remain  distinct ;  the 
subject  being  the  single  individual,  the  predicate  the 

fenus,  as  when  I  say,  "  the  rose  is  a  flower,''^  yet  in  this 
istinction  they  are  related  to  each  other.  Thinking  in. 
this  form  is  judgment,  and  as  such  it  is  the  power,  that 
every  where  produces  light  and  order.  Yet  we  must 
have  comprehended,  before  we  can  judge,  and  hence  it 
is  that  children  may  understand  a  thing  without  being 
able  to  judge  of  it. 

Thirdly,  Syllogism  or  Conclusions  is  the  activity  by 
which  thinking  removes  all  difference,  and  effects  a  per- 
manent identity.  In  every  syllogism  we  have  three 
thoughts ;  each  is  distinct  and  differs  from  the  other, 
but  one  of  them  is  capable  of  removing  the  difference 
and  of  uniting  the  others  in  itself.  Hence  this  process 
is  called  Conclusion  or  Syllogism,  This  activity  of 
thinking  is  reason,  the  fruit  on  the  tree  of  knowledge. 

REMARKS. 

1.  Feeling  and  sensations  are  as  little  the  origin  or 
ground  of  thinking,  as  buds  and  blossoms  are  the  origin 
of  fruit.  The  fruit  depends  on  them  as  a  condition, 
but  its  origin  precedes  blossoms  and  buds,  and  is  more- 
over also  their  origin.  Thinking,  however,  commen- 
ces as  feeling,  and  develops  itself  from  it  gradually  till 
it  reaches  its  height.  Human  feeling  and  that  of  the 
animal  must  consequently  differ  from  their  very  com- 
mencement, for  the  one  contains  thinking  according  to . 
its  possibility,  in  its  latent  state,  the  other  not.  Sensa- 
tions and  conceptions  are  related  to  thinking  and  its  de-" 
velopment  as  conditions  ;  for  without  them  it  could  not 
exist  in  man. 

2.  There  is  a  difference  between  the  expressions  / 
think,  and  I  have  a  thought.  The  words  "  I  have,"  ex- 
press a  being,  but  one,  which  is  not  itself,  what  it  pos- 
sesses.    "  To  have  a  good  thought,"  and  "  to   think 


260  PSYCHOLOGY. 

well"  iSj  therefore,  not  exactly  the  same.  The  thought 
I  have  may  he  bojTOioed,  but  when  I  think  well,  the 
thought  being  the  product  of  my  own  thinking,  is  the 
same  with  it.  Yet  this  must  not  be  understood,  as  if  a 
man  might  have  a  thought  without  thinking  ;  he  may 
have  a  word  without  the  thought  it  contains  ;  but  to 
have  a  thought  merely  handed  by  another  would  be  no 
better  than  to  have  another  eat  and  digest  for  him. 


261 


SECTION  II. 


ON  WILL. 


It  is  usual  to  consider  Reason  and  Will  as  wholly  dif- 
ferent activities,  and  to  speak  of  mental  and  moral  facul- 
ties. But  the  mind  is  one,  and  reason  and  will  are  so 
inseparable,  that  the  one  includes  the  other.  They  have 
one  principle  and  one  life ;  and  what  is  on  the  one  hand 
liberty  of  will,  is  on  the  other  spontaneity  of  thought. 
Man  cannot  will  a  thing,  unless  he  knows  of  it ;  he 
cannot  have  any  knowledge  of  it  without  the  influence 
of  will.  Before  he  resolves  on  a  thing,  he  must  con- 
sider it,  and  again,  he  must  resolve  to  consider  it.  The 
more  clear  and  distinct  our  thinking,  the  more  it  will  be 
pervaded  by  the  will ;  and  the  more  considerate,  wise  and 
correct  our  actions,  the  more  the  breath  of  understand- 
ing will  penetrate  them.  I  investigate  a  subject  by  my 
loill ;  and  my  will  is  directed  to  it  by  the  knowledge  I 
have  of  it.  Will  and  reason  constantly  determining 
each  other,  are  one  and  the  same — existing  in  different 
forms ;  or  "  Reason  is  nothing  else  than  will  with  pre- 
vailing consciousness  J  and  will  is  reason  with  a  pre- 
vailing practical  tendency ^^ 

It  must  be  remarked  here,  however,  that  xoill  maybe 
viewed  in  a  twofold  aspect,  as  nature  and  as  moral 
will ;  in  the  latter  respect  it  is  to  be  viewed  in  the  closest 
connection  with  law^  moral  ohligation^  duties  and 
rights  ;  in  the  former  it  manifests  itself  by  desires,  in- 
clinations, emotions,  and  passions.  Only  the  morally 
good  is  free  ;  the  merely  natural  will  is  wholly  depen- 


262  PSYCHOLOGY. 

dent  on  external  objects  or  internal  passions,  it  does  not 
determine  itself  by  its  own  nature,  but  by  the  nature  of 
that  which  js  different  from  itself.  In  the  sphere  of  the' 
natural  will  we  can  recognize  nothing  but  determ- 
inism. It  will,  therefore,  be  understood,  that  here  we 
shall  examine  the  will  of  man,  as  it  is  by  nature,  and 
not  as  it  is  by  grace  or  religious  influence.  The  natu- 
ral will  then  lives  in  all  our  desires,  inclinations  and 
passions ;  and  these,  after  a  preliminary  remark,  we 
shall  try  to  define  and  distinguish  from  each  other. 
We  may  here  recollect  what  has  been  said  on  the  na- 
ture of  instinct.  It  is  on  the  one  hand  a  feeling  of 
want,  and  on  the  other  the  direction  to  the  object  by 
which  the  want  may  be  removed.  There  is  a  corres- 
ponding relation  between  the  wants  of  all  animated  be- 
ings and  the  things  which  may  relieve  them,  as  there  is 
a  relation  between  negative  and  positive  poles.  The 
want  is  the  negative,  and  the  food  intended  for  it,  is  the 
positive.  -  As  this  relation  is  a  natural  one,  the  being 
feeling  the  want,  is  excited  and  restless,  for  the  want  is 
related  to  the  thing  desired,  and  cannot  remain  quiet ; 
this  excitement  demands  a  certain  direction,  a  direction 
to  the  means  by  which  to  satisfy  the  want,  and  it  is  in- 
stinct which  gives  it.  Now  if  the  feeling  of  want  is 
'painful^  that  of  satisfaction  is  delightful^  so  that  the 
mere  sight  of  food  is  exhilarating.  Again  :  whatever" 
can  feel  itself  must  feel  external  influences,  and  receive 
from  them  pleasant  or  unpleasant  impressions.  The 
stone  exposed  to  the  sun,  does  not  feel  it ;  the  flower 
may  wither,  but  the  eye  looking  into  it  feels  the  most 
severe  pain.  When  now  any  external  influence  upon 
a  being  which  feels  itself,  excites  its  self-activity,  pleas- 
ure will  be  felt  by  its  reaction  ;  when  this  self- activity 
is  weakened,  and  perhaps  rendered  in  some  degree  im- 
possible, pain  is  the  result.  Pain  and  pleasure  are, 
therefore,  the  two  extremes,  between  which  the  exist- 
ence of  man  vibrates,  and  upon  which  the  general  char- 
acter of  all  desires  and  inclinations,  emotions  and  pas- 
sions rests.  The  nature  of  instinct  proceeds,  as  we 
have  seen,  from  self-feeling  ;  for  without  feeling  itself, 
a  being  cannot  feel  want.    Self-feeling  is  its  channel. 


PSYCHOLOGY.  '  263 

It  is  no  less  determined  by  this  self-feeling  than  it  de- 
termines the  whole  life  of  a  living  being  ;  it  directs  it 
with  an  inflexible  determination  to  its  proper  food,  so 
that  no  horse  has  ever  yet  been  seen  to  eat  flesh,  even 
in  its  greatest  hunger,  nor  a  tiger  to  eat  straw.  While 
instinct,  as  long  as  it  is  in  the  sphere  of  mere  self-feel- 
ing has  no  choice  with  regard  to  the  direction  which  it 
takes,  it  loses  all  direction  when  it  enters  the  sphere  of 
consciousness  in  man.  As  a  stream,  that  flowing 
smoothly  along  its  course  turns  neither  to  the  right  nor 
to  the  left,  is,  on  plunging  into  the  broad,  deep^  ocean, 
suddenly  deprived  of  its  direction,  so  is  instinct,  when 
received  by  consciousness.  Yox  now  feeling  and  con- 
sciotisnes^  unite  ;  the  mere  feeling  of  want  becomes  a 
consciousness  of  it,  as  likewise  the  feeling  of  pain  ;  what 
we  feel  we  become  conscious  of,  and  feeling  entering  into 
our  consciousness,  gives  it  warmth  and  life,  and  fills  it 
with  pain  or  pleasure.  But  consciousness  will  not  suf- 
ier  itself  to  be  driven  to  its  objects  by  an  instinctive 
power  ;  where  it  reigns  choice  and  arbitrariness,  reason 
and  will  prevail.  Instinct  grows  dull,  and  loses  its  na- 
ture ;  but  as  man  continues  to  have  wants,  What  must 
supply  the  place  of  instinct  7  The  full  import  of  this 
question  will  be  perceived,  when  we  observe,  that  we 
cannot  desire  the  unknown  ;  and  again  that  we  cannot 
know  any  thing  unless  we  desire  to  know  it.  Hence  a 
desire  cannot  originate  directly  in  our  knowledge,  nor 
this  in  our  desire.  How  is  this  contradiction  to  be  re- 
moved ?  Instinct  raises  the  animal  above  it ;  but  in- 
stinct is  not  in  man  what  it  is  in  the  animal.  The 
contradiction  in  man  must  be  removed  by  what  may  be 
called  appetency.  This  is  instinct  which  has  lost  its 
direction  ;  for  though  the  direction  is  lost,  the  activity 
continues  ;  man  continues  to  feel  hunger  ^nd  thirst,  and 
a  tendency  of  his  nature  to  satisfy  them.  This  tenden- 
cy is  instinctive,  but  as  man  is  conscious  of  it,  it  is  no 
longer  instinct  as  such.  He  feels  hunger,  but  the  ob- 
ject by  which  to  satisfy  it,  is  not  pressed  upon  him  by 
instinct.  He  sees,  however,  many  objects  that  are 
pleasant  to  his  sight ;  he  feels  an  appetency  to  unite 
them  with  himself,  to  eat  them  without  as  yet  knowing 


264  PSYCHOLOGY. 

whether  they  will  he  agreeable  ox  disagreeable.  He 
eats  the  apple  and  finds  it  good,  and  from  this  moment' 
the  remembrance  of  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  as- 
similation of  it  will  always  call  forth  the  anticipation  of 
pleasure  as  often  as  he  feels  want,  and  perceives  an  ap- 
ple or  represents  it  to  himself  by  fancy.  By  appetency 
then,  we  understand  the  original  activity  of  instinct^ 
which  having  lost  its  direction  by  entering  the  sphere 
of  consciousness^  makes  an  attempt  to  give  a  new  one. 
Or  appetency  in  man  is  the  anticipation  of  a  pleasure. 
I  see  for  the  first  time  a  plate  of  beautiful  grapes  ;  their 
transparency,  their  pure  juice  swelling  beneath  the  skin', 
attract  the  eye.  As  yet  I  have  not  tasted  them,  they 
may  taste  sweet,  or  bitter,  or  acid,  for  all  is  not  gold 
that  glitters ;  I  cannot  yet  say  that  I  shall  like  them, 
but  I  make  the  attempt,  I  taste  and  find  them  good,  and 
from  that  moment  I  desire  grapes  whenever  I  see  them. 
What  then  is  a  desire  7 

DESIRE. 

It  is  the  positive  direction  which  we  have  taken  by 
means  of  appetency  to  an  object  or  objects,  which  agree 
^..with  our  natural  wants.  Two  things  then  are  necessa- 
'•^ry  for  the  origin  of  a  desire  ;  a  natural  want  and  an 
object  to  remove  it.  The  want  and  this  object  must  be 
brought  together,  and  that  which  unites  them  is  not  in- 
stinc?^^a1s  su<jh-^  but  what  we  have  called  appetency. 
This  appetency  woul(i  be  impossible  without  sensation  ; 
but  sensation  has  here  no  reference  to  theoretical  but  to 
practical  knowledge,  for  as  soon  as  I  see  the  pear  a 
feeling  of  pleasure  connects  itself  with  my  perception-, 
and  i  already  anticipate  the  enjoyment  of  eating  it. 
And  so  likewise  I  examine  it  only  with  reference  to  its 
taste.  Sensation  and  knowledge,  therefore,  enter  into 
the  service  of  the  desires. 

Desires  are  either  positive  or  negative.  The  posi- 
tive  desires  are  those  the  objects  of  which  agree  with 
our  nature,  and  thus  produce  the  feeling  of  pleasure. 
The  negative  desires  on  the  other  hand,  do  not  find 
what  they  seek,  an  object  corresponding  with  our  wants, 


PSYCHOLOGY.  -  266 

and  pleasure  resulting  from  its  union  with  ourselves  ; 
but  the  object  positively  desired,  is  discovered  to  be  in- 
jurious or  to  produce  an  eifect  opposite  to  what  we  ex- 
pected, and  hence  we  abhor  it  whenever  we  again  see 
it.  No  negative  desire  is  possible  without  a.  positive  one 
preceding  it ;  for  we  must  become  acquainted  with  the 
nature  of  all  things  around  us  by  our  own  experience, 
and  though  the  sheep  selects  safely  sugar  from  arsenic, 
man  must  either  have  eaten  the  latter  himself,  or  have 
seen  it  used  by  others,  before  he  will  avoid  it. 

The  difference  between  positive  and  negative  desires 
will  appear  more  distinctly  if  we  inquire  :  What  is  to  be 
understood  by  the  satisfaction  of  desire  ?  The  satis- 
faction of  a  positive  desire  is  the  assimilation  of  its  ob- 
ject with  ourselves,  making  it  part  of  our  own  existence 
and  receiving  pleasure  by  doing  so.  1  desire  an  apple 
which  I  see  hanging  on  a  branch  perfectly  ripe  and 
pleasant  to  the  sight ;  I  pluck  and  eat  it  and  my  desire 
is  satisfied.  It  exists  no  longer  for  itself,  but  becomes 
flesh  of  my  body  and  blood  of  my  blood  ;  it  is  convert- 
ed into  an  accidence  of  myself.  So  it  is  with  every 
thing  else.  The  piece  of  sugar  is  desired  by  the  child  ; 
its  desire  is  half  satisfied  when  it  receives  it  and  fully 
when  it  eats  it.  The  satisfaction  of  desire  then  consists 
in  this  ;  the  want,  the  restlessness  from  which  the  de- 
sire arises,  is  removed  and  the  anticipation  of  pleasure 
realized  at  the  expense  of  the  object  desired,  for  it  is  de- 
stroyed.— Our  negative  desires,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
satisfied  when  the  thing  we  dislike  is  kept  away 
from  us,  consequently  does  not  come  in  contact  with  us. 
The  manner  in  which  we  keep  it  at  a  distance,  may  be 
effected  by  our  turning  away  from  it,  by  fleeing  it,  or  if 
necessary  by  annihilating  it.  Again,  negative  desires 
and  abhorrence  differ.  Every  negative  desire  bases  it- 
self upon  a  positive  one,  and  this  upon  a  knowledge  of 
the  object ;  abhorrence,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  imme- 
diate expression  of  instinct,  and  does  not  rest  on  know- 
ledge, but  on  a  sensation,  especially  on  that  of  smell  or 
sight.  ~  The  horse  abhors  carcasses  ;  man,  any  thing 
unclean  in  his  food. 

^  demand  J  on  the  other  hand,  differs  from  a  positive 
34 


266  PSYCHOLOGY. 

desire  by  basing  itself  upon  a  right ;  while  a  wish  is  a 
desire  for  something,  which  we  either  know  to  be  out 
of  our  reach  or  which  we  make  no  attempt  to  get  into 
our  power. 

Every  desire,  however,  is  transient ;  for  every  satis- 
faction of  desire  is  like  the  pressure  of  an  elastic  body 
that  rises  as  soon  as  the  hand  is  removed  from  it.  Like 
the  phoenix,  which  ever  rises  anew  from  its  own  ashes, 
or  the  liver  of  Prometheus  which  grew  as  fast  as  the 
vultures  ate  it,  so  desire  rises  always  anew  from  its  satis-^ 
faction.  The  life,  spent  in  the  sphere  of  desire  is,  there- 
fore, without  true  satisfaction,  and  man  cannot  remain 
within  it.  He  wills  something  permanent  and  passes 
over  into  the  sphere  of 

INCLINATION. 

If  our  desires  cannot  be  permanently  satisfied,  and  if 
they  are  changeable,  constantly  passing  from  one  object 
to  another, — ^our  inclinations  select  a  single  object,  fix 
themselves  upon  it,  and  instead  of  destroying  it  by  as- 
similation, preserve  it ;  for  an  inclination  \s  the  desire  to 
remahi  in  constant  and  permanent  connection  with  a 
certain  object^  and  to  effect  this,  it  must  be  carefully  pre- 
served. From  this  preliminary  definition  it  may  be 
seen  that  the  difference  between  desire  and  inclination 
is  not  merely  in  degree,  as  some  have  asserted  in  say- 
ing that  inclination  is  a  desire  to  which  we  have  become 
accustomed ;  the  difference  is  one  of  quality  ;  inclina- 
tion is  something  else  than  desire;  when  under  the  in- 
fluence of  desire,  we  want  the  objects  to  yield  to  us,  to 
pass  over  into  ourselves,  and  become  accidents  of  our- 
selves ;  when  we  have  an  inclination  to  an  object  we 
yield  to  it,  bend  towards  it,  and  our  aim  is  to  remain  in 
connection  with  it.  It  is  not  the  repetition  of  a  desire, 
therefore,  that  makes  it  an  inclination  so  that  the  latter 
would  be  the  former,  having  only  become  habitual.  We 
cannot  have  an  inclination,  without  having  had  a  de- 
sire, and  yet  the  difference  remains  one  of  quality  or 
kind.  If  one  desires  to  learn  a  mechanical  business 
merely  for  the  purpose  of  gaining  a  livelihood  by  it,  he 


PSYCHOLOGY.  267 

will  not  care  for  a  particular  one,  but  be  satisfied  with 
any  ;  but  an  iiiclination  will  be  bent  upon  some  one 
and  no  other,  and  whatever  may  oppose  this  inclination, 
it  will  remain  the  same.  A  mere  desire  to  drink  when 
we  are  thirsty  differs  not  a  little  from  an  inclination 
for  a  specific  wine. 

No  desire  can  therefore  pass  over  at  once  into  an  in- 
clination, and  we  all  know  that  it  is  impossible  for  us 
to  love  a  thing,  merely  because  we  desire  to  love  it. 
That  which  renders  a  natural  inclination  possible,  is 
an  innate  propensity.  The  wants  of  man  and  his  feel- 
ing of  them  are  permanent ;  appetency  is  the  attempt 
to  give  these  feelings  a  direction  to  certain  objects,  by 
which  they  may  be  removed.  These  objects  are  va- 
rious, but  only  one  is  desired  at  a  time,  and  it  may  be 
one  thing  or  another.  Man  needs  food  and  drink  ;  what 
this  food  and  drink  may  be,  is  indifferent  in  the  sphere 
of  desire  ;  but  propensity  is  the  innate  tendency  of  our 
wants  and  feelings  to  a  certain  particular  object ;  it  is 
the  adaptedness  contained  in  the  knowledge  of  an  ob- 
ject and  in  the  feelings  connected  loith  this  knowledge, 
to  our  capacity  of  desiring  it.  This  adaptedness  or 
relation  between  our  knowledge  of  an  object  and  the 
desire  for  it  is  innate,  and  therefore  precedes  both  in 
their  reality,  and  exhibits  itself  at  the  moment  that  we 
for  the  first  time  perceive  the  object.  How  many  la- 
dies had  Dante  seen  without  being  affected  by  them  1 
But  when  he  saw  Beatrice,  his  heart  was  at  once  hers. 
So  it  was  with  Petrarch  when  he  saw  Laura.  This 
propensity  is  so  strong  that  no  one  can  alter  it,  because 
it  is  something  as  subjective  in  man,  as  instinct  is  in 
animals  ;  it  is  instinct  modified  by  the  influence  of  rea- 
son. Yet  while  none  can  change  or  extinguish  it, 
every  one  is  expected  to  govern  it.  And  again,  as  no 
one  can  have  an  inclination  for  what  he  has  no  natural 
propensity,  so  he  cannot  avoid  feehng  an  inclination, 
when  a  propensity  exists  in  his  bosom.  Upon  such  a 
propensity  talents  and  genius  are  based.  Inclinations 
have,  therefore,  propensity  for  a  medium.  They  pre- 
suppose desires  and  are  impossible  without  them ;  they 
must  have  an  object,  this  object  must  be  known  and 


268  PSYCHOLOGY. 

with  the  knowledge  of  it  a  feeling  of  pleasure  must  be 
connected,  as  in  desires. 

How  then  is  inclination  to  be  dejiiied  7  When  as 
often  as  we  think  of  an  object^  we  desire  a  connection 
with  it,  we  have  a  propensity  to  it y  which,  indulged  will 
become  an  inclination.  We  must  not  imagine,  how- 
ever, that  as  we  have  different  inchnations,  so  we  must 
have  different  propensities.  Propensity  is  a  general  ac- 
tivity, which  may  individualize  itself  and  produce  the 
most  various  inclinations,  as  one  and  the  same  reason 
takes  the  most  different  directions  to  the  various  objects 
of  knowledge.  I  have  a  propensity  to  the  past,  to  re- 
flect on  it,  on  historical  facts;  but  hereby  virture  of 
this  general  propensity,  I  may  incline  to  heraldry,  to 
chronology,  to  the  ethical  portions  of  history,  to  criti- 
cism, &c.  An  inclination  is  either  positive  or  negative. 
As  positive,  it  is  love  of  a  thing,  as  negative,  dislike. 

The  character  of  inclination  is  calm,  it  does  not 
storm  like  desire,  it  is  not  vehement  like  passion,  and 
yet  it  is  full  of  warmth  and  life.  When,  however,  this 
calmness  is  disturbed,  when  the  objects  of  an  inclina- 
tion render  man  subject  to  themselves,  their  slave,  the 
inclination  loses  its  character  and  becomes  something 
more,  it  becomes,  . 

EMOTION. 

"An emotion"  according  to  Kames,  "is  an  internal 
motion  or  agitation  of  the  mind,  which  passes  away 
without  desire."  This  definition  of  emotion  is  not  al- 
together accurate,  for  mind  is  itself  an  internal  motion, 
it  is  an  uninterrupted  motion,  and  an  emotion  must  be 
something  different  from  the  usual  state  of  the  mind. 
Emotion  is  a  disturbance  of  the  quiet,  peaceful,  and 
otherwise  uninterrupted  Tnoiion  of  the  rnind.  From 
this  definition  it  follows  at  once  that  the  animal  having 
no  mind,  cannot  have  emotions.  Every  emotion  is  a 
strong  feeling,  yet  not  every  feeling  is  an  emotion. 
The  feelings  of  hunger  and  thirst,  of  fatigue  or  vigor, 
^re  no  emotions  ;  but  feeling  connected  with  a^  clear 
thought  of  their    origin  may  be   emotions.     By  the 


PSYCHOLOGY.  269 

thought  of  its  cause  a  feeling  becomes  united  with  con- 
sciousness, gains  a  hold  upon  the  mind  ;  and  if  this  hold 
is  so  strong,  that  the  person  loses  self-control,  that,  as 
Karnes  says,  no  desire,  no  determined  direction  can 
take  place  in  him,  that  he  becomes  confused — then  the 
feeling  is  an  emotion.  A  man  who  is  quietly  walking 
alone  in  a  beautiful  grove,  engaged  in  meditation,  sud- 
denly sees  a  rattle-snake  before  him  ;  he  clearly  perceives 
his  danger,  and  a  feeling  of  displeasure  connecting  it- 
self with  his  perception,  he  is  so  frightened  that  at  first 
he  is  neither  able  to  defend  himself  nor  to  run  away. 
This  is  an  emotion  which  deprives  him  of  the  com- 
mand of  his  mind.  Such  an  emotion  may  be  com- 
pared to  the  disturbance  of  the  quiet  mirror  of  a  lake, 
when  a  stone  is  dropped  into  it.  The  waters  seem  in 
perfect  rest,  yet  they  are  in  motion.  The  stone  dis- 
turbs their  quietude,  and  small  circles  form  themselves 
which  constantly  enlarge  as  they  recede  from  the  cen- 
ter. Desires  and  inclinations  have  a  determined  direc- 
tion to  certain  objects,  but  emotions  have  no  direction 
at  all.  For  instance  a  person  highly  insulted  by  anoth- 
er, feels  wroth  ;  he  clenches  his  fist,  his  eyes  roll — but 
he  is  at  first  unable  to  act ;  the  ofiender  meanwhile  runs 
off  and  the  angry  man  exclaims,  "  if  I  had  him  here 
now  I  would  give  him  what  he  deserves."  But  we  have 
not  yet  fully  understood  the  nature  of  an  emotion.  We 
must  see  its  origin  and  foundation.  We  have  said  that  an 
emotion  is  a  disturbance  of  the  activities  of  mind : 
What  are  these  activities?  Thmking^  willing  and 
feeling.  When  these  three  activities  are  of  equal 
strength  and  in  harmony,  or  when  thinking  freely  pre- 
vails, then  the  mind  is  active,  but  in  no  emotion  j 
when  desire  prevails,  the  activity  of  the  mind  having 
a  direction,  is  likewise  not  agitated,  but  when  the 
thinking  activity  is  impeded  by  that  of  feeling,  when 
thinking  becomes  clouded  by  it — then  we  have  an  emo- 
tion. The  possibility  that  "  thinking  may  prevail  in 
us,  and  be  at  the  same  time  impeded  by  our  feeling," 
has  been  called  excitability.  The  greater  this  is  in  a 
person  the  more  will  he  be  under  the  influence  of  emo- 
tions.     The  correctness  of  this  definition  of  emotion 


270  PSYCHOLOGY. 

will  appear  too  from  the  expressions  we'  use,  when  we 
recover  from  an  emotion.  "  I  was  overcome  ;"  "  I  was 
unmanned  ;"  "I  was  led  away:"  ^'  I  was  not  myself;" 
"  I  forgot  myself;"  (fcc.  Animals,  as  was  said  above, 
cannot  have  emotions,  because  the  ground  of  every  emo- 
tion is  thinkings  connected  with  strong  feeling.  Yet 
we  know  that  they  express  pain  and  joy,  fear  and  hope. 
This  only  seems  so  however.  Their  pain  and  plea- 
sure, proceeding  from  the  measure  of  an  external  influ- 
ence upon  them,  is  of  an  entire  bodily  character,  dis- 
connected  xoith  any  thought^  and  what  seems  to  be  fear 
or  hope,  is  nothing  but  a  confused  and  dark  anticipation 
of  which  they  can  give  no  account  to  themselves,  neither 
while  they  are  agitated,  nor  afterwards.  Their  fear 
does  not  proceed  from  the  thought  of  danger  connected 
with  strong  feeling ;  but  like  the  bird  charmed  by  a 
snake,  they  have  but  an  unknown  dim  feeling,  not  even 
amounting  to  anxiety..  Emotions  are  likewise  either 
negative  or  positive,  as  their  nature  harmonizes  with 
that  of  the  person.  All  positive  emotions  are  strength- 
ening, as  joy,"" delight,  hope  ;  all  negative  ones  are  weak- 
ening, or  of  a  melting  character,  as  grief,  melancholy 
ifcc. 

We  have  said,  a  Utle  above,  that  instinct  loses  its 
direction  in  man,  and  we  have  just  stated  that  emotions 
are  without  direction  -;  What  then  is  the  difference  be- 
tween instinct  that  has  lost  its  direction,  and  emotions  ? 
Emotions  are  more  intellectual  than  instinct  after  it  en- 
ters into  man,  and  again  instinct  gains  a  direction  by  ap- 
petency, while  emotions  pass  away  without  taking  any 
certain  direction.  Emotions,  however,  are  transient 
like  desires;  and  cannot  be  recalled.  The  joy  I  felt  at 
the  reception  of  glad  tidings,  when  once  gone,  is  gone 
for  ever,  as  an  emotion,  and  to  pretend  to  have  it  again 
in  all  its  liveliness  and  freshness  would  be  sheer  affecta- 
tion. Emotions  being  transient,  they  can  gain  perma- 
nency only  by  connecting  themselves  with  an  inclina- 
tion ;  but  thus  neither  the  inclination  nor  the  emotion 
remain  pure,  they  are  mixed,  and  in  this  mixed  state, 
they  are, 


PSYCHOLOGY.   ,  271 


PASSION. 


The  difference  between  inclination  and  passion  is 
not  always  kept  up  very,  distinctly,  and  the  reason  is, 
that  they  have  the  same  contents.  For  as  we  have 
love  of  honor  and  of  proper ty^  so  we  have  ambition 
and  avarice,  which  are  passions,  the  objects  of  which  are 
likewise  honor  and  property.  Again,  every  inclination 
may  become  a  passion,  either  transient  or  permanent, 
and  hence  it  demands  much  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture to  distinguish  between  an  inclination  and  a  passion. 
They  do  not  merely  differ  in  degree,  so  that  an  inclina- 
tion losing  its  proper  measure  would  become  passion  ; 
in  this  case  it  would  be  difficult  to  ascertain  this  projoer 
measure.  Passion  has  elements,  which  inclination  has 
not,  and  the  relation  of  passion  to  its  object  is  wholly 
different  from  that  of  inclination  to  tVs  object.  What 
then  are  the  elements  of  passion,  that  are  not  met  with 
in  inclination  ?  Passion  in  general  is  a  vehement,  im- 
movable, and  persevering  inclination,  that  has  received 
into  itself  either  a  strong  einotion  or  another  inclina- 
tion or  a  desire.  A  higher  or  lower  degree  merely, 
cannot  make  the  same  state  of  mind,  at  one  time  an  in- 
clination, and  at  another  a  passion,  but  the  difference  is 
produced  by  their  entirely  different  nature.  In  passion, 
thinking  and  feeling,  are  wholly  subordinate  to  desire  ; 
hence  passions  are  blind.  Every  passion  is  at  the  same 
time  negative  and  positive,  a  complete  contradiction. 
Avarice  is  positive  as  a  determined  desire  for  money ; 
negative  as  a  constant  depriving  ourselves  of  the  most 
necessary  sustenance.  So  again  with  reference  to  the 
relation  of  passion  to  its  object,  it  may  be  said,  that 
passion,  as  its  name  indicates,  is  wholly  under  its  con- 
trol ;  that  the  object  so  reigns  in  it,  as  to  exclude  every 
other  inclination  or  desire.  A  few  examples  may  be 
given : 

1.  When  an  emotion  enters  into  an  inclination,  it  causes 
a  transient  passion.  The  father,  for  example,  loves  his 
son  ;  this  love  is  quiet  and  undisturbed.  But  the  father 
hears  of  some  danger  which  threatens  his  son  ;  the 


272  PSYCHOLOGY. 

thought  of  this  danger  connects  itself  with  a  strong  feel- 
ing and  becomes  fear,  and  this  emotion  entering  his  pa- 
ternal love,  changes  it  into  a  passion,  that  will  last  as 
long  as  the  fear  continues,  and  will  disappear  with  it. 
The  more  excitable  a  person  is,  and  the  more  determin- 
ed in  his  propensity  and  inclination  to  a  certain  object, 
the  more  easily  passions  of  this  sort  will  arise  in  his 
mind.  A  man  loves  property ;  this  love  is  of  a  tran- 
quil character,  and  he  does  not  lose  his  equilibrium. 
But  war  breaks  but ;  it  renders  property  insecure — he 
is  excitable,  fear  enters  into  his  love  and  converts  it  into 
a  transient  passion.  When  the  war  is  over  and  pro- 
perty becomes  safe,  the  passion  subsides. 

2.  Again ;  passions  originate,  when  one  inclination 
enters  into  another,  and  thus  strengthening  it,  changes  it 
into  a  passion.  This  passion  will  be  permanent  and  al- 
ways ready  to  break  forth,  as  often  as  an  emotion  draws  it. 
A  man,  for  instance,  loves  war  and  honor  equally  ;  here 
are  two  inclinations  and  if  he  observes  that  his  reputa- 
tion may  be  increased  by  his  love  of  war,  he  will  make 
this  subservient  to  the  other,  and  instead  of  love  of 
honor,  he  will  have  ambition. 

3.  And  finally,  when  a  desire  enters  into  an  inchna- 
tion,  it  likewise  becomes  a  passion.  The  nature  of  de- 
sire and  that  of  inclination  is  dilFerent.  The  desire 
wants  the  object  to  yield  to  us  ;  in  inclination  the  per- 
son bends  towards  the  object.  Desire,  to  satisfy  itself, 
destroys  its  object  by  assimilation,  inclination  is  deter- 
mined to  preserve  it.  When  desire  and  inclination  en- 
ter into  each  other,  they  form  a  shocking  contradiction, 
which  is  the  essence  of  passion.  To  illustrate  this,  we 
will  take  once  more  the  example  of  the  ambitious  man. 
He  loves  honor,  and  hence  is  ready  to  devote  himself,  all 
his  skill,  all  his  knowledge,  all  his  power  and  even  life 
to  it ;  at  the  same  time,  he  desires  honor  to  yield  to  him, 
to  be  his,  and  longs  for  it  merely  for  his  own  sake.  If 
it  were  not  his  honor,  he  would  not  take  any  interest  in 
it.  On  the  one  hand,  then,  he  gives  himself  up  to 
honor,  considering  it  the  highest  good  ;  on  the  other  he 
desires  honor  to  become  a  mere  accident  of  himself. 

In  conclusion  we  would  define  passion  thus  :  "  It  is 


PSYCHOLOGY.  273 

a  strongs  persevering,  blifid  desire,  that  is  either  con- 
nected with  a  strong  emotion  or  an  incli7iation,  afid 
deprives  man  of  self-control,  chaining  all  his  thitiking 
and  icilling. 

RELATION   OF  DESIRES,  INCLINATIONS,  EMOTIONS, 
AND  PASSIONS,  TO  THE  WILL. 

Acts  of  the  will  and  those  of  desire  resemble  each 
other,  and  hence  are  not  always  distinguished  in  com- 
mon life.  And  yet  their  difference  is  considerable.  The 
motive  of  an  action,  prompted  by  desire,  is  always  the 
anticipation  of  pleasure,  be  this  pleasure  sensual,  in- 
tellectual, or  rational.  An  action  that  proceeds  purely 
from  will,  on  the  other  hand,  has  for  its  motive,  the 
knowledge  and  love  of  the  divine  law,  and  the  feeling 
of  regard  for  ourselves.  With  this  feeling  also,  it  is 
true,  a  pleasure  is  connected,  but  this  pleasure  is  of,  a 
moral  nature,  depending  on  notions  of  right  and  duty. 
Acts  of  the  will  always  have  reference  to  rights ;  I  may 
demand  what  I  will ;  acts  of  desire  do  not  regard  them, 
but  we  frequently  desire  what  we  have  no  right  to  long 
for.  Our  natural  desires,  are  therefore  indifferent  to 
right  and  duty,  and  consequently  have  in  themselves  no 
elements  of  moral  goodness.  Again  :  the  soul  of  desire 
is  lust,  pleasure  ;  being  under  its  influence,  we  are  un- 
der that  of  pleasure,  and  if  our  life  is  confined  to  the 
sphere  of  desire,  it  will  know  of  nothing  higher  than 
pleasure  or  Eudaemonism.  In  this  case  our  'Will  does 
not  determine  itself  by  the  idea  of  the  divine  law,  nor 
by  its  own  power,  but  it  is  determined  by  the  notion  of 
pleasure,  and  consequently  it  is  not  free,  but  under  the 
dominion  of  something  different  from  itself.  It  is  true 
that  man,  while  under  the  dominion  of  desire,  may  turn 
from  one  object  to  another,  so  that  no  one  enchains  him, 
yet  it  is  tlie  power  of  pleasure  alone,  that  controls  him, 
even  when  he  is  prudent,  like  Epicurus. 

In  inclinations,  it  is  different,  and  man  is  even  less 
free  in  them  than  in  desires.  For  when  we  have  once 
formed  an  inclination,  it  is  a  particular  object,  one  out 
of  many,  that  fastens  us  to  itself,  and  claims  our  inter- 

35 


274  PSYCHOLOGY. 

est,  care  and  attention  above  all  others.  We  can,  there- 
fore, no  longer  turn  away  from  it,  and  bend  to  another, 
as  we  please,  but  this  object  enchains  us.  Hence  one 
inclination  excludes  those  that  cannot  harmonize  with 
it,  and  draws  a  circle  around  us,  within  which  alone  we 
can  move  with  a  certain  degree  of  liberty.  Our  mere 
curiosity,  for  instance,  finds  every  knowable  object  equal- 
ly interesting  ;  but  when  we  feel  a  strong  inclination  to 
a  particular  science,  it  will  limit  our  interest  in  other 
sciences,  and  though  we  may  speak  in  an  animated  man- 
ner of  them,  yet  they  will  attract  us  in  proportion  as 
they  approach  the  one  that  is  our  favorite.  But  if  in 
our  inclinations  we  are  not  free,  if  in  them  we  are  de- 
termined by  the  power  of  their  objects  and  the  pleasure 
we  take  in  them, — passion  makes  us  wholly  their  slaves. 
They  deprive  us  of  all  self-control;  they  do  not  permit 
any  other  inclinations  to  exist  by  their  side,  they  are  ve- 
hement and  importunate  desires,  insisting  with  might 
on  their  satisfaction.  They  are  like  internal  diseases, 
working  secretly,  absorbing  and  poisoning  all  the  healthy 
portions  of  the  will  and  subjecting  it  wholly  to  their 
control. 

Passions,  unless  their  objects  are  of  a  noble  character, 
ruil  a  dagger  through  the  heart  of  will ;  destroying  it  in 
the  most  direct  way.  Man  in  the  state  of  nature  is  the 
creature  of  passion.  The  highest  good  for  man  is  lib- 
erty^ civil  or  moral,  external  or  internal ;  yet  moral  and 
internal  liberty  only  renders  civil  liberty,  or  the  inde- 
pendence of  nations  on  each  other,  and  that  of  citizens 
in  the  nations,  and  liberty  of  thought  valuable  or  desi- 
rable. Only  when  morally  free,  we  may  say  with 
right,  the  will  of  man  is  his  happiness.  To  preserve  liber- 
ty, laws  and  duties  and  rights  surround  man.  Now 
that  which  most  immediately  destroys  will  is  passion, 
because  it  disregards  all  duties  and  all  rights.  Take, 
for  example,  ambition  ;  it  is  undoubtedly  the  desire  of 
having  others  possess  a  good  opinion  of  our  characters. 
This  desire  is  so  great  that  it  darkens  our  reason  with 
regard  to  every  thing  else.  It  becomes  the  principle 
and  motive  of  all  actions,  it  subordinates  all  inclina- 
tions.    The  ambitious  man  does  every  thing  because  it 


PSYCHOLOGY.  275 

will  increase  his  reputation,  and  not  because  it  is  hon- 
orable in  itself;  the  highest  good  he  knows  of,  is  his 
own  honor.  This,  however,  is  certainly  a  slavish  de- 
pendence on  the  object  of  our  desire.  The  ambitious 
man  needs  the  influence  of  others  to  spread  his  reputa- 
tion. Hence  he  becomes  dependent  on  them  externally, 
as  he  is  on  his  desire  for  honor  internally  ;  for  what- 
ever does  not  promote  it,  can  gain  no  hold  on  him. 
Every  permanent  passion  is  a  suicide  committed  by  our 
will  and  our  reason.  The  influence  of  passion  on  our 
will  being  so  great,  we  add  a  remark  with  regard  to  the 
different  classes  of  passionate  men.  In  this  respect  we 
may  divide  them  all  into  three  classes : 

1.  Some  men  are  only  at  times  overpowered  by  pas- 
sions, but  generally  free  from  them.  They  possess  fine 
talents,  the  power  to  acquire  much  and  solid  know- 
ledge ;  they  readily  take  an  interest  in  all  that  deserves 
attention  ;  for  they  are  left  free  from  those  deep  impres- 
sions which  monopolize  the  interest  of  man.  Their 
thinking  is  no  less  extensive,  than  energetic  and  deep, 
and  so  their  feeling  is  both  deep  and  expanded  over 
many  objects.  They  lay  plans  and  execute  them  with 
perseverance  and  steadiness,  for  they  are  not  drawn  off 
by  any  sudden  and  powerful  stimulus.  They  may  be 
less  inventive  and  ingenious,  but  they  are  clear,  deep 
and  thorough,  and  their  minds  are  principally  active  in 
the  form  of  pure  reason.  They  are  fond  of  specula- 
tion and  philosophy,  for  this  science  must  be  carried  on 
without  prejudices  or  predilections,  without  passions  or 
emotions. 

2.  The  second  class  comprises  those  who  are  pas- 
sionate, whose  passions  however  are  transient.  They 
have  many  inclinations,  and  being  highly  excitable, 
emotions  will  be  easily  called  up,  and  through  them 
their  inclinations  will  become  transient  passions.  These 
of  course  will  affect  their  character.  Their  thinking" 
and  feeling  will  not  be  of  equal  strength,  as  regards 
their  extent  and  energy  ;  but  they  spread  over  a  large 
field  and  thus  weaken  themselves.  Taking  an  interest 
in  every  object  cast  before  them,  they  persevere  in 
nothing,  but  pass  from  owo  thing  to  another,  knowing 


276  *  PSYCHOLOGY. 

something  of  all,  but  not  much  of  any  thing.  Their 
desire  for  knowledge  is  mere  curiosity.  They  rarely 
ask  for  the  principles  of  the  arts  or  sciences,  satisfied  with 
a  few  facts  they  have  no  idea  of  a  systematic  life  that 
pervades  all  sciences.  Again  :  passionate  men  may  take 
a  deep  interest  for  a  time  in  the  objects  of  their  passions, 
but  their  interest  contiijues  only  as  long  as  their  pas- 
sion lives  ;  while  at  the  same  time  it  is  confined  to  the 
sphere  of  their  passion.  They  take  an  interest  in  their 
native  country,  but  not  in  the  whole  world.  They  pre- 
fer the  useful  to  the  good^  and  right  and  dutiful. 

3.  The  third  class  of  men  are  those  who  are  governed 
by  one  strong  and  permanent  passion.  Their  thinking 
is  strong  and  energetic,  but  limited  as  to  its  extent ;  and 
so  it  is  with  their  feeling.  The  limitation  of  these  ac- 
tivities rendeft  it  possible  to  be  more  energetic  and  pow- 
erful within  the  limits  in  which  they  concentrate  them- 
selves, upon  some  few  objects.  Persons  of  this  charac- 
ter are  thorough  in  their  knowledge.  The  envious 
man  will  be  a  close  observer,  the  avaricious  a  good 
arithmetician.  So  it  is  with  feeling.  The  proud  man 
will  not  care  for  the  sons  of  his  neighbor,  but  the  more 
deep  will  be  his  interest  in  his  own.  The  man,  whose 
passions  are  permanent,  may  appear  externally  cool,  de- 
liberate and  free  from  deep  emotions  ;  for  one  great  pas- 
sion controls  all  his  feelings  and  movements.  The  am» 
bitious  despot,  for  example,  knows  how  to  gain  the  con- 
fidence of  all,  while  none  is  permitted  to  pry  into  his 
secrets,  or  to  see  his  weak  side. — To  one  of  these  three 
classes  every  man  belongs,  and  to  know  man,  we  must 
study  the  nature  of  the  passions.  The  study  of  the  po- 
ets, especially  of  Shakspeare,  will  be  found  very  fertile. 

Finally,  we  have  yet  to  consider  the  relations  of  emo- 
tions to  will.  Emotions,  while  they  continue,  render 
desire  impossible.  This  shows  itself,  when  we  have 
lost  a  friend  by  death,  \ye  lose  all  desire  for  food  or 
drink.  Emotions  sometimes  strengthen  desire,  but  then 
emotion  enters  into  desire  and  puts  forth  all  its  energy  in 
the  direction  which  the  desire  has  tak-en.  Again  :  it  has 
been  observed  that  some  persons  speak  better  than  they 
write,  while  others  write  better  than  they  speak :  How  is 


'§^. 


PSYCHOLOGY.  277 

this  to  be  explained  ?  Emotions  either  strengthen  or 
weaken  our  thinking ;  they  strengthen  it  when  think- 
ing draws  their  power  into  itself  and  thus  gains  their  as- 
sistance. It  becomes  then  enthusiastic  and  thoughts 
flow  more  clearly,  more  rapidly  and  fully  ;  the  thought 
of  that  which  causes  the  emotions,  and  the  emo- 
tions become  inseparable  and  aid  each  other.  Persons, 
on  whose  thinking  emotions  have  this  effect,  speak 
better,  because  they  are  more  easily  excited  in  public*, 
than  in  their  private  study.  When,  however,  the  emo- 
tion so  grows  together  with  our  thinking,  that  it  wholly 
fills  the  latter,  becomes  its  soul  and  does  not  suffer  it 
to  turn  to  any  thing  else,  mental  derangement  may  take 
place.  This  is  the  case  when  all  our  thinking  and  feel- 
ing has  become  one  grief ;  when  whatever  we  look 
upon,  seems  to  be  a  mirror,  reflecting  only  what  agitates 
us,  and  when  all  seems  to  be  gloomy  and  dark  as  our- 
selves. But  emotions  more  generally  weaken  our  think- 
ing, and  then  we  cannot  speak  as  well  as  write.  Our 
judgment  becomes  slow  and  our  perceptions  obscure. 
A  young  man  appears  for  the  first  time  in  the  pulpit ; 
he  desires  to  do  well,  but  the  feeling  of  danger  arising 
from  the  possibility  of  failure,  impedes  his  desire,  un- 
mans his  judgment,  and  becoming  embarrassed  he  does 
not  know  where  he  is  nor  what  he  is  doing.  Or  a  per- 
son who  has  not  often  been  in  company,  reluctantly  en- 
ters it;  in  the  course  of  conversation  some  witty  or 
cutting  remark  is  made  which  he  keenly  feels,  but  ip  his 
embarrassment  cannot  find  a  reply. 

Lastly,  emotions  weaken  our  will ;  when  we  are 
wroth  and  act  in  it,  we  do  not  determine  our  ourselves 
by  will  but  by  the  power  of  an  unpleasant  feeling.  Our 
will  is  the  slave  of  it  and  wholly  determined  by  it. 
There  is,  of  course,  no  physical  necessity  in  the  emo- 
tions to  compel  man  to  act  in  accordance  with  the  im- 
pulse received  from  them.  When  the  cloud,  filled  with 
electricity,  strikes  a  house,  it  cannot  do  otherwise  ;  but 
when  a  man  filled  with  wrath  strikes  another,  he  might 
have  refrained,  he  might  have  restrained  himself.  But 
in  the  latter  case  the  question  would  be,  What  induced 
him  to  refrain  from  discharging  his  wrath,  on  his  fel- 


278  PSYCHOLOGY. 

low  man  ;  Was  it  a  sense  of  duty,  or  some  selfish  de- 
sign ?  We  have  seen  then,  that  in  the  sphere  of  our 
natural  will,  there  is  no  liberty  to  be  found,  and  that 
consequently  what  is  called  so,  is  arbitrariness,  but  not 
freedom. 

We  shall  now  offer  a  few  remarks  on  each  of  the 
above  subjects  in  particular,  yet  so  that  we  shall  include 
inclination  and  passion  in  one  chapter,  as  their  objects 
are  the  same. 


279 


CHAPTER  I. 


ON  DESIRES. 


Desires  may  be  divided  according  to  their  objects. 
These  are  either  sensual^  or  sensual-intellectual^  or  ra- 
tional ;  and  hence  we  have  so  many  different  classes  of 
desires. 

SENSUAL  DESIRES. 

The  term  sensual  does  not  include  any  reproach 
whatever,  for  it  has  here  no  reference  to  morality.  Such 
a  reference  it  can  get  only  by  our  will  in  its  relation  to 
the  divine,  which  is  here  wholly  left  out  of  view. 
These  desires  are  called  sensual,  because  their  object 
becomes  known  to  us  by  our  senses  ;  and  because  our 
knowledge  of  them  is  sensuous.  Yet  it  must  not  be 
thought,  that  any  knowledge  could  exist  without  some 
reflection,  or  thought ;  we  mean  only  to  say,  that  sen- 
sation is  the  condition,  without  which  no  knowledge  of 
the  objects  of  sensual  desires  would  be  possible.  The  de- 
sires under  consideration  are  numerous  as  their  ob- 
jects, which  extend  from  inorganic  nature,  as  minerals, 
waters,  to  the  organic — vegetables  of  all  kinds  and  ani- 
rijals.  Whether  an  individual  has  many  or  few  of  them 
depends  on  his  own  constitution,  and  on  the  nature  sur- 
rounding him.  The  latter  is  conditioned  by  the  influ- 
ences of  the  sun  and  moon,  and  climate  in  general.  If 
the  region  in  which  a  person  lives,  is  productive,  if  it 
exhibits  to  his  eyes  a  great  variety/  of  fruits  and  vegeta- 
f '^^     bles,  his  desires  will  be  many :  if  the  region  is  barren, 


JJ80  PSYCHOLOGY. 

or  if  its  productions,  though  rich  and  plentiful,  are  lim- 
ited in  their  kinds,  the  desires  of  its  inhabitants  cannot 
be  various,  though  they  may  be  vehement.  No  man 
can  desire  that  of  which  he  has  no  knowledge ;  he  who 
has  never  seen  an  oyster  or  a  turtle,  cannot  long  for  one, 
and  he  who  has  never  tasted  southern  fruits,  as  oranges, 
pine-apples,  <fec.,  will  not  feel  a  desire  for  them.  As  re- 
gards the  constitution  of  man,  it  is  as  we  have  seen  in 
Anthropology,  modified  by  various  causes.  Age  affects 
it,  and  hence  we  desire  in  youth  that  to  which  we  feel 
indifferent  in  manhood.  Sexual  difference  likewise  pro- 
duces a  difference  in  our  sensual  desires  :  woman  has 
more  delicate,  more  refined  desires ;  those  of  man  are 
more  vehement  and  more  coarse.  And  so  the  number 
and  variety  of  our  desires  depend  further  on  the  race  to 
which  we  belong,  on  the  tribe,  the  nation,  the  age  in 
which  we  live,  on  the  family  in  which  we  are  brought 
up.  The  Germans  are  fond  of  sauerkraut ;  the  English 
of  roast  beef;  the  French  of  bouillon;  the  Italians  of 
maccaroni,  &c.  So  is  each  family  a  small  whole  of  its 
own,  separated  from  others  by  a  family-spirit,  ex- 
pressing itself  in  peculiar  views  and  feelings,  customs 
and  habits.  Here  also  members  of  one  family  will  have 
desires,  which  those  of  another  have  not.  Some  feel 
an  aversion  to'  milk,  and  whatever  is  made  of  it ;  others 
again  desire  it  more  than  any  other  food. 

SENSUAL— INTELLECTUAL  DESIRES. 

The  objects  of  these  desires  are  those  that  may  be  per- 
ceived by  our  senses,  but  become  objects  of  desire  by 
reflection.  Of  this  nature  are  all  the  objects  of  proper- 
ty. As  sensual  objects  they  are  perceptible  to  the  eye, 
but  their  character  of  being  property/  is  only  known  to 
the  understanding.  For  that  which  renders  them  pro- 
perty, is  the  law  :  this  cannot  be  seen  with  the  eyes, 
and  though  signs  and  landmarks  may  separate  our  pro- 
perty from  that  of  another,  it  is  only  by  thinking,  by 
acknowledging  the  invisible  law,  that  we  perceive  and 
acknowledge  property.  The  sign  is  there  for  the  ani- 
mal as  well  as  man  ;    but  for  the  former  it  is  a  mere 


PSVdHOLOGY.  281 

stone,  a  mere  post ;  for  unless  we  see  that  something  is 
indicated  by  a  thing,  it  is  no  sign  for  us.  Again  :  de- 
sires are  intellectual  when  objects  are  not  desired  so 
'  much  on  their  own  account,  as  on  account  of  some- 
thing else,  when  they  are  therefore  considered  as  useful, 
more  than  merely  agreeable.  So  we  become  conscious 
of  duration  of  time,  and  through  it,  of  that  of  life  ;  we 
desire  a  long  life  because  we  desire  the  pleasures  and 
enjoyments  life  grants  us.  Life  is  here  desired  on  ac- 
count of  that  which  it  offers.  Should  we  be  sick,  the 
desire  of  life  would  induce  us  to  desire  the  most  unpleas- 
ant medicine,  if  we  hoped  to  recover  by  taking  it.  So 
we  may  desire  life  for  the  sake  of  gathering  property,  or 
of  acquiring  reputation.  The  objects  of  sensual-intel- 
lectual desires  are,  therefore,  not  only  agreeahle.hut  use- 
ful. But  the  useful  is  worth  more  than  the  agreeable  ; 
an  illuminated  saloon  may  be  agreeable,  but  a  machine 
is  useful,  and  the  latter  stands  higher.  If  the  number  of 
sensual  desires,  depends  oji  many  accidental  circum- 
stances, that  of  intellectual  desires  depends  on  the 
cultivation  of  the  mind ;  and  as  the  objects  of  intel- 
lectual desires  stand  higher,  or  lower  on  the  scale  of 
intellect,  we  desire  most  those  that  stand  nearest  to  our* 
selves. 

There  are  some  desires  which,  while  the  above  are 
natural,  are  wholly  unnatural.  Persons,  whose  systems 
are  weakened  and  incapable  of  any  longer  serving  the 
desires  which  they  once  enjoyed,  still  remember  themj 
and  from  remembrance  desire  them  again  ;  or  seeing 
others  enjoying  themselves,  they  desire  their  pleasures. 
This  is  the  case  with  old  voluptuaries  especially,  and 
with  persons  who  have  exhausted  their  nature  by  excess* 
ive  indulgence.  An  alderman,  who  was  importuned 
by  a  beggar,  when  on  his  way  to  a  dinner,-  said;  "I 
would  give  five  guineas  for  your  appetite." 

RATIONAL  DESIRES.  c 

Their  objects  are  those  which  are  not  at  all  percep- 
tible to  the  senses,  and  which  consequently  can  only  be 
perceived  by  thinking.     Truth,  for  instance,  is  nothing 

36 


^ 


282  PSYCHOLOGY. 

sensual :  the  numbers  written  on  the  blackboard  have 
a  sensual  existence,  but  we  may  rub  them  off  at  any- 
time. The  relation  on  the  other  hand,  in  which  num- 
bers stands  to  each  other,  cannot  be  rubbed  oif,  but  re- 
mains for  ever  the  same.  The  number  two  cannot  be 
less  nor  more  than  two  under  any  circumstances,  and 
two  added  to  three  must  always  mQkQJive.  This  rela- 
tion is  the  truth  of  numbers.  But  it  is  not  visible  to 
the  eye,  it  is  only  accessible  to  the  understanding.  So  it 
is  with  beauty.  Not  the  marble,  not  the  canvass  and 
the  colors,  are  beautiful — they  may  be  agreeable  ; — it  is 
thought  alone  that  is  beautiful  when  it  appears  in  a  sens- 
ible form.  If  we  acknowledge  beauty  in  nature,  we 
must  also  acknowledge  a  spirit  addressing  us  from  all 
the  productions  of  nature.  The  material  by  which 
beauty  is  expressed  may  be  destroyed  ;  languages  die 
and  become  extinct :  the  marble  crumbles  in  the  course 
of  time  ;  colors  grow  pale  ;  but  beauty  in  its  nature  is 
eternal,  and  as  such  it  is  only  ah  object  to  thought  and 
reflection. 

Now  we  desire  truth,  beauty,  and  goodness,  but  as  soon 
as  we  enter  these  spheres,  we  have  entered  the  sphere  of 
pure  will,  and  our  desires  must  assume  a  moral  relation. 
The  nature  of  truth,  of  beauty,  and  honor  is  such  that 
they  cannot  become  means  ;  they  are  the  final  end  of 
all  that  is.  If  any  one,  for  example,  should  desire  honor 
merely  because  it  is  useful,  and  not  because  it  is  jntrin- 
sically  desirable,  he  would,  as  soon  as  this  was  known 
of  him,  Se  denied  honor  by  every  one,  for  such  a  desire 
is  dishonorable  in  itself  The  honorable  man,  on  the 
other  hand,  will  sacrifice  property  and  life  to  honor. 
The  same  is  the  case  with  beauty,  speaking  here  of  the 
beauty  of  art.  It  has  the  power  to  silence  all  desires, 
to  raise  us  above  sensual  feeling,  so  much  that  it  has 
for  this  reason  at  all  times  been  considered  an  excellent 
means  of  cultivation.  ^For  when  our  desires  are  at  rest 
we  are  left  free  to  examine  a  thing ;  but  when  the  ob- 
ject of  our  investigation  excites  desires  by  its  sensual 
life,  we  seek  less  for  its  true  nature,  than  for  the  use  we 
may  make  of  it.  In  all  the  beauties  of  art,  sensual  life 
being  absent,  desires  cannot  be  awakened  by  them.    We 


PSYCHOLOGY.  283 

may,  however,  desire  beauty  for  its  own  sake,  but  not 
as  means  for  any  thing  else.  '  What  then  is  the  object  of 
a  rational  desire  ?  It  is  one  that  is  likewise  desired  on 
its  own  account,  that  in  our  view  of  it  cannot  be  lower- 
ed to  become  a  mere  means  for  something  else,  while  at 
the  same  time  it  is  confined  to  the  sphere  of  natural  de- 
sires. That  which  cannot  become  means  again,  and 
which  is  infinite  in  its  nature,  is  always  rational,  and 
the  object  of  a  rational  desire  is  happiness.  The  idea 
of  happiness  is  that  of  an  uninterrupted  well-being. 
Man  flees  what  is  painful,  and  seeks  what  is  pleasant ; 
he  is  anxious  to  reduce  the  pain,  without  which  no  life 
has  yet  been  found,  to  the  smallest,  and  increase  pleas- 
ure to  the  highest  amount.  The  better  he  succeeds  in 
affecting  this,  the  more  will  he  approach  the  ideal  of 
happiness.  All  other  desires  have  to  serve  that  of  hap-' 
piness ;  all  other  ends  will  become  subordinate  to  it ; 
all  his  other  desires  will  be  governed  by  it,  and  brought 
into  harmony  with  it.  Wherein  then  does  this  happi- 
ness consist  7  It  is  an  uninterrupted  well-being  :  well- 
being  is  the  feeling  of  pleasure  ;  pleasure  proceeds  from 
the  satisfaction  of  wants,  for  though  pain  is  the  opposite 
of  pleasure,  and  cannot  be  sought  for  on  its  own  ac- 
count, it  becomes  by  its  removal,  the  source  of  pleasure. 
To  satisfy  wants  we  must  have  the  means,  and  the  idea 
of  happiness  includes  them.  Happiness  then  consists 
in  the  possibility  of  satisfying  all  our  possible  wants,  and 
the  desires  arising  from  them.  But  there  are  many  de- 
sires ;  they  cannot  all  be  satisfied  at  once  ;  a  man  can- 
not eat  and  drink,  read  and  speak  at  the  same  time. 
And  again  there  are  sensual  and  intellectual  wants,  and 
desires  which  frequently  interfere  with  each  other,  so 
that  if  we  indulge  the  former,  we  shall  weaken  the  lat- 
ter, and  so  the  reverse.  Hence  prudence  must  compare 
one  with  the  other,  lest  we  should  indulge  the  less  val- 
uable desire,  and  deprive  ourselves  of  one  that  might 
have  given  more  satisfaction.  Yet,  however  prudent 
man  may  be  with  regard  to  the  preference  he  gives  one 
desire  over  the  other,  and  with  regard  to  the  means 
which  he  may  collect,  and  the  object  of  which  may  be 
his  study,  he  will,  after  all,  not  find  what  he  seeks  in  his 


4M- 


284  PSTCHOLOQY.      ' 

State  of  nature,  for  one  thing  alone  renoains  permanent 
in  him,  his  thirst  for  happiness,  while  all  the  rest  is  con- 
stantly changing.  Dante,  in  his  celebrated  Convito,  has 
shown  this  beautifully  in  the  following  passage.  "  The 
original  desire  that  draws  us  to  every  thing  is  implant- 
ed in  us  by  nature,  and  this  is  the  desire  to  return  to 
God  as  our  fountain.  And  as  the  pilgrim  who' walks 
on  an  unknown  path,  considers  every  cottage  which  he 
perceives  at  a  distance  as  the  resting-place,  and  when 
he  discovers  that  it  is  not,  directs  his  hope  onward  t6 
another,  and  thus  from  cottage  to  cottage,  until  at  length 
he  reaches  the  harbor  ; — so  it  is  with  the  soul ;  as  it  en- 
ters the  new,  yet  unknown  path  of  this  life,  it  directs  its 
eye  to  the  object  of  its  highest  good,  and  every  thing 
which  it  perceives  to  contain  any  good,  it  takes  for  it. 
And  as  its  insight  is  at  first  imperfect,  and  has  neither 
experience  nor  instruction,  a  little  good  seems  great  to 
it,  and  hence  its  desire  is.  at  first  bent  upon  it.  Thus 
we  see  little  children  vehemently  desire  an  apple,  and 
when  they  grow  larger  they  desire  a  bird,  and  when 
still  larger  beautiful  dress,  and  afterwards  a  horse,  and 
then  a  wife,  and  then  riches,  and  so  on.  The  reason  of 
this  is  that  the  soul  does  not  find  in  any  one  of  these 
things  what  it  seeks  for,  and  what  it  hopes  to  find  else- 
where. And  thus  we  may  see  that  one  wish  always 
stands  behind  the  other  in  the  eye  of  the  soul,  like  a 
pyramid  which  increases  more  and  more,  and  spreads 
towards  the  basis,  and  the  last  ground  and  the  basis 
of  all  wishes,  is  God.  In  truth,  as  one  loses  his  way 
on  a  path  here  on  earth,  so  the  soul  often  loses  its  way 
on  that  path  on  which  our  wishes  wander.  *  *  *  *  As 
we  see  that  he  who  walks  in  the  right  way,  attains  the 
end,  and  fulfils  his  wish,  and  comes  to  rest  after  his  la- 
bors ;  but  he  who  enters  the  wrong  path  never  attains 
his  object,  and  never  comes  to  rest,  so  it  happens  also 
in  life.  The  correct  pilgrim  comes  to  the  end  and  to 
rest,  but  he  that  misses  the  path  can  never  reach  it ; 
but  with  much  disappointment  of  soul  he  will  look  with 
a  longing  eye  into  an  empty  distance." 


»       -#   -■ 

« 

■ 

* 

..      V    ^   "-^^ 

3YCH0L0GY. 

.*- 

> 

285*- 

-*. 

' 

REMARKS. 

: 

.'.  ^~  '■    ■  - 

1.  Goethe,  in  his  Faust,  has  represented  the  nature 
of  'desire  in  a  most  terrible  manner.  It  is  probably  the 
"only  tragedy  in  which  c^esire,  as  such,  is  X\\q  pathos 
of  the  hero.  Faust  would  like  to  have  the  whole 
universe  serve  him  ;  he  desires  every  thing,  and  is  satis- 
fied with  nothing.  He  is  never  under  the  influence  of 
an  emotion  or  passion  :  it  is  desire  that  destroys  him. 

2.  In  the  sphere  of  desire  we  may  discover  pru- 
dence •  but  not  wisdom.  Epicurus  was  a  prudent  man, 
a  man  that  would  not.  inconsiderately  indulge  desires  ; 
he  was  a  useful  man,  whatever  Cicero,  de  Jinihus 
honoriuiiy  may  say  against  him.  for  he  taught  that  to  be 
happy  ourselves,  we  must  assist  others  in  becoming 
happy.  Man  needs  man  and  cannot  live  without  him, 
and  knowing  this,  none  should  be  selfish,  but  Qvery  one 
ought  to  live  for  others,  that  they  again  may  live 
for  him.  This  is  certainly  prudent.  But  happiness 
within  this  sphere  of  desires  is  not  the  highest  end  of 
man,  and  however  prudently  it  may  be  planned,  however 
prudently  all  means  may  be  procured — there  is  an  end 
higher  stilly  and  this  is  the  salvation  of  the  soul.  This 
cannot  be  converted  into  a  means  ;  it  is  the  final  des- 
tination of  man.  And  that  man  is  tvise,  who  endeav^ 
ours  to  secure  it  to  himself. 


*? 


#   -.  ^ 


2g6 


CHAPTER  II. 


ON  INCLINATION  AND  PASSION. 

Thegeneral  character  of  all  positive  inclinations  is  that 
of  love  ;  it  lives  in  all  of  them,  and  hence  it  is  that  most 
are  named  from  it,  as  love  of  honor,  love  of  life,  self-love, 
love  of  fashion,  &c.  Love  is  the  entering  the  nature 
and  being  of  something  else  ; — loving  a  thing  we  unite 
ourselves  with  it,  without  expecting  it  to  [yield  to  us. 
The  character  of  love  however,  greatly  differs.  There  is 
di  moral  love  which  may  be  demanded  of  us  :  we  ought 
^o  love  all  our  fellow  beings,  even  our  enemies.  "  Be 
like  the  cinnamon  tree  that  pours  fragrance  on  him 
who  hews  it  down."  There  is  a  religious  love,  it  is  the 
love  of  God,  and  to  God,  it  is  mercy  towards  those  that 
deserve  no  love,  and  it  is  the  love  kindled  in  our  hearts  by 
the  Holy  Spirit.  And  there  is  finally  a  pathological  love, 
or  natural  love,  which  does  not  rest  on  principles  of  our 
will,  but  on  a  kind  of  sympathy  between  ourselves  and  its 
objects,  on  what  has  been  called  propensity.  Its  distant 
analogy  may  be  found  in  the  animal  world  at  the  time 
when  the  old  attend  to  their  young.  Yet  all  conscious- 
ness being  absent,  it  is  but  animal  sympathy,  instead  of 
love,  that  we  observe  there.  Hence  it  is  that  one  gene- 
ration of  animals  knows  nothing  of  another,  for  they 
neither  remember,  nor  love  each  other,  after  the  young 
are  once  able  to  take  care  of  themselves.  No  one  would 
say  either,  however  dependent  his  dog  may  be  on  him, 
that  he  is  loved  by  him.    Such  doggish  love  would  be 


PSYCHOLOGY.  ,^  287' 

worth  little.  All  pathological  or  natural  love,  arises 
from  a  natural  propensity  to  certain  objects,  and  pre- 
supposes some  resemblance  between  ourselves  and  them. 
In  nature  it  is  true  that  unlike  poles  attract  each  other, 
but  they  are  nevertheless  the  poles  of  the  same  power, 
and  have  it  in  common  with  each  other,  and  it  is  the 
power  itself  that  thus  divided,  unites  itself  with  itself 
by  attraction.  The  objects  of  our  love  modify  its  char- 
acter. They  are  either  ourselves^  or  something  iiian- 
imate,  things  and  objects  in  nature,  or  they  are  our 
fellow-men.  When  its  objects  are  inanimate  we  can- 
not properly  speak  of  Zove,  or  if  we  do,  we  must  use  the 
word  in  a  lifnited  sense.  It  would  be  strange  to  say 
that  we  love  a  certain  food  or  drink,  or  love  a  house,  a 
garden,  a  golden  chain,  a  ring :  but  in  all  these  in- 
stances we  would  rather  say  we  like  such  things.  Only 
the  like  can  enter  into  the  nature  of  the  like,  the  spiritual 
that  of  spirit,  the  sensual  that  of  sensation  ;  but  inaut 
imate  things  have  nothing  that  resembles  any  thing  in 
ourselves,  and  hence  they  cannot  be  loved,  properly 
speaking.  But  we  may  love  ourselves,  and  love  our< 
fellow-men.  Yet  the  basis  of  all  pathological  love,  is 
self-love,  and  no  man  ever  lived  that  loved  any  thing 
different  from  himself,  but  self-love  was  the  open  or  se- 
cret source  of  his  interest.  Christ  alone  was  free  from 
all  self  love  :  he  loved  as  none  before,  or  after  him  ;  he 
loved  the  world  sinful  as  it  was,  and  loved  it  having  no 
scheme  in  view  for  himself,  free  from  every  calculation 
in  his  own  favor.  His  love,  the  prototype  of  all,  was' 
not  chained  to  his  self,  but  free  and  pure  ;  he  loved  the 
world  for  its  own  sake.  Our  love,  whatever  be  its  ob- 
ject, rests  always  on  our  self-love,  and  we  love  every 
thmg  else  because  it  pleases  us,  because  it  has  some- 
thing which  we  love  in  ourselves.  Yet  though  all  love 
commences  in  self-love,  it  is  not  necessary  that  the  lat- 
.  ter  should  remain  the  prevailing  soul  of  the  former,  but 
it  may  become  so  strong  and  so  pure,  that  self-love  dis- 
appears. This  shows  itself  especially  when  love  be- 
comes mutual,  when  it  exists  between  two  persons.  This 
love  like  every  other  commences  with  self-love.  We 
love  a  quality,  a  trait  in  the  character  of  another,  be- 


288  PSYCHOLOGY. 

cause  it  'pleases  us,  because  it  corresponds  with  our 
idea  of  nobleness,  or  because  it  is  agreeable  to  our  feel- 
ing. The  other  loves  himself  as  much  as  we  love  our- 
selves, and  the  approbation  of  others  is  desired  as  much 
by  him  as  by  us.  He  perceives  our  liking  to  one  of  his 
qualities,  and  though  he  should  find  nothing  else  in  us, 
that  could  attract  his  attention,  he  will  certainly  like 
our  liking  to  him,  and  thus  his  self-love  will  make  him 
incline  to  us.  But  if  our  love  could  not  leave  the 
other,  in  whom  we  discovered  a  pleasant  quality,  indif- 
ferent, his  love  to  our  liking  will  certainly  strengthen 
our  inclination  to  him;  now,  however,  its  object  will 
no  longer  be  a  quality  in  him,  but  his  love^  so  that  our 
love  will  lose  his  love,  or  that  love  will  love  itself,  that 
love  will  have  itself  as  its  contents.  Thus  self-love  is 
merged  in  love ;  and  love  hovering  over  two  like  a 
genius  of  peace  and  harmony,  so  unites  them,  that 
though  two  in  space  and  time,  they  will  be  one  in  spirit. 
There  is  a  difference,  for  there  are  two  ;  and  yet  there 
is  none,  for  they  are  one.  They  do  not  love,  the  one 
something  in  the  other,  as  his  money,  his  beauty,  his 
character ;  but  each  loves  the  love  of  the  other ;  and 
love  thus  divided  between  two,  resting  in  each,  and  be- 
ing the  same  in  both,  only  closes  itself  together  with 
itself  It  finds  itself,  and  rejoicing  in  having  found  it- 
self, it  keeps  together  with  itself.  As  the  sOul,  accord- 
ing to  Plato,  was  divided  in  two,  before  it  entered  the 
world,  and  now  each  half  seeks  the  other,  and  as  they 
will  be  delighted  when  they  meet  again,  and  are  drawn 
towards  each  other  by  a  mysterious  feeling  of  their  be- 
longing to  each  other,  so  it  is  with  love  between  two 
persons.  Such  love  may  commence  in  self-love,  but 
where  it  blooms  and  lives,  self-love  dies  away. 

All  inclinations  either  have  reference  to  man  in  his 
relation  to  himself  as  an  individual,  or  to  him,  as  he 
is  related  to  his  fellow-men,  and  hence  we  have  two 
general  classes ; 


PSYCHOLOGY.  289 


■   I.  INCLINATIONS  ARISING  FROM  THE  RELATION 
IN  WHICH  MAN  STANDS  TO  HIMSELF: 

Self-love  being  the  mother  of  all  other  inclinations, 
demands  an  attention  above  all  others.  Its  object  is 
the  person  himself  that  loves.  It  is  only  love  m  which 
the  subject  that  loves,  and  the  object  loved,  are  the 
same,  for  loving  myself,  it  is  I  that  love,  and  it  is  I  that 
am  loved.  It  includes  a  consciousness  of  our  existence, 
and  of  every  thing  that  can  render  it  comfortable  and 
pleasant.  Arising  from  our  natural  tendency  to  pre- 
serve ourselves,  we  not  .only  desire  a  continuation  of 
our  existence  in  the  present  life,  but  also  after  death, 
and  not  only  rejoice  in  our  preservation,  but  especially 
delight  in  every  new  mode  of  existence,  in  every  devel- 
opment, of  our  powers.  We  love  ourselves  as  we  are, 
and  love  what  we  find  in  ourselves.  Self-love  is  the 
mother  of  all  other  inclinations,  because  unless  we  take 
an  interest  in  ourselves,  it  will  be  impossible  to  take  it 
in  anything  else.  The  relation,  however,  in  which  we 
stand  to  ourselves,  will  render  it  impossible  for  us,  to 
be  indiiferent  to  ourselves  ;  for  there  is  no  other  object 
ofAvhich  we  can  be  so  immediately  conscious,  and  there 
is  more  of  which  we  are  conscious,  that  we  can  desire 
as  much,  as  we  desire  a  continuation  of  our  existence. 
Every  desire  includes  a  knowledge  of  its  object,  which 
here  is  the  subject  that  has  the  knowledge  and  the  de- 
sire :  but  where  knowledge  and  desire  are  so  insepara- 
ble, that  if  we  have  the  one,  we  must  have  the  other, 
there  must  be  a  strong  propensity,  or  such  a  possibility 
for  the  organ  of  an  inclination,  that  the  inclination  will 
certainly  be  formed.  Hence  no  man  can  help  loving 
himself,  for  it  is  as  natural  to  him  as  to  breathe. 

The  object  of  self-love,  it  has  been  stated,  is  our  self; 
and  all  it  contains.  Its  contents  are  its  existence,  the 
continuation  of  this  existence,  life,  and  all  that  consti- 
tutes a  part  of  ourselves. — We  can,  however,  only  love 
ourselves  as  lining  beings,  and  in  proportion  as  we 
love  ourselves  we  shall  love  our  life.  This  we  love  be- 
cause it  is  oursj  and  because  we  love  ourselves.     Love 

37 


290 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


of  life  is  therefore  next  in  importance,  for  unless  we  live 
we  cannot  love. 

LOVE  OF  LIFE. 

The  merfirtendency  to  live,  and  continue  life,  we  have 
in  common  with  the  animal:  the  worm  when  trodden 
upon  writhes  beneath  the  foot,  as  if  it  were  unwilling 
to  die  ;  the  ox  when  struck  with  the  ax  of  the  butcher 
moans  and  rages  as  if  he  resisted  with  all  his  might  the 
attempt  to  deprive  him  of  his  life.  But  no  animal  can 
love  its  lifCj  for  to  love  a  thing,  we  must  be  conscious 
of  it,  and  be  able  to  desire  it.  Man  may  love  his  life  ; 
because  he  can  render  the  idea  of  life  objective  to  him- 
self, he  can  in  his  thoughts  separate  life  from  himself, 
and  say,  '''my  life-''^  But  we  love  life  on  account  of  its 
contents,  and  these  are  the  joys  and  pleasures  of  life. 
Hence  these  become  objects  of  our  love.  There  are 
two  ways  in  which  we  may  enjoy  ourselves  in  life : — 
life  is  activity;  every  activity  that  feels  itself  oscillates 
between  rest  and  labor ;  the  change  from  the  one  to 
the  other  is  pleasant.  It  is  pleasant  to  recreate  one's  self 
after  labor,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  muscles  and  nerves  to 
be  active  again  after  rest.  A  desire  for  rest  without  la-" 
bor  is  indolence,  3.ud  desire  for  constant  employment  be- 
comes an  inclination  to  enterprise,  business,  and  may  de- 
generate into  restlessness.  If  the  former  by  its  power  of 
sloth,  drags  us  down  to  matter,;  the  latter  destroys  the  vig- 
or of  our  system.  But  as  rest  becomes  tedious,  and  activ- 
ity exhausts,  and  consequently  either  by  itself,  becomes 
unpleasent,  man  will  try  to  unite  them  moderately,  so 
that  neither  one  prevails  above  the  other.  This  is  the 
origin  of  diversions  and  amusements  of  every  kind. 
For  every  play  demands,  on  the  one  hand,  some  atten- 
tion, some  activity,  yet  one  that  does  not  fatigue,  and 
on  the  other,  it  permits  us  to  rest  ourselves.  Hence 
there  is  in  children  an  inclination  to  play.  But  adults 
may^  likewise  incline  to  games.  The  constantly  chang- 
ing and  always  attractive  manner  in  which  this  kind 
of  activity  employs  the  mind,  is  highly  fascinating,  the 
skill  we  have  an  opportunity  of  exhibiting  ;  the  attrac- 


PSYCHOl*dGY.  291 

tion  offered  to  the  imagination  by  chance  that  prevails 
in  games,  and  by  tempting  a  dark  and  concealed  for- 
tune, all  of  them  render  this  kind  of  entertainment  pleas- 
ant. So  it  is  with  hunting.  The  elements  of  this 
pleasure  are  manifold.  All  uncertainty  is  exciting; 
the  uncertainty  of  success  is  therefore  among  the  first ; 
we  half  fear,  and  half  hope  ;  fear  and  hope  mingling  pro- 
dace  the  emotion  of  anxiety,  which  is  pleasant  if  hope  pre- 
vails over  fear.  The  next  elenients  are,  the  exercise  of 
skill  and  judgment  in  discovering  the  haunts  of  the 
game ;  presence  of  mind  in  seizing  the  opportunity 
quickly,  and  with  confidence  when  it  oflTers  itself  It 
is  delightful  too,  to  rest  under  the  green  boughs  of 
trees,  to  move  from  place  to  place  in  pursuit  of 
an  object  we  much  desire ;  the  fragrance  of  woods  is 
invigorating,  and  the  observation  of  the  life  of  animals 
is  interesting.  This  inclination  to  hunting  was  greater 
during  the  middle  ages,  than  it  was  among  the  ancients,  > 
or  than  it  is  now.  Among  the  ancients  we  find  that 
the  Egyptians,  Indians^  and  all  the  Asiatic  nations,  con- 
sidered animals  sacred,  and  rather  protected  than  des- 
troyed them.  Among  the  Greeks,  too,  certain  animals 
were  consecrated  to  certain  gods,  and  were  used  in  sacri- 
fices. Yet  Hercules  and  other  heroes  hunted  them,  es- 
pecially those  that  were  inimical  to  man.  Hercules 
kills  the  Nemean  lion,  the  Lernean  serpent,  (fee.  In- 
clinations to  war,  to  adventures,  and  other  tendencies 
of  our  nature,  rest  on  the  same  principle. 

Closely  connected  with  our  life,  are  the  means  by 
which  we  support  it,  and  if  we  love  the  former  we 
must  take  interest  in  the  latter.  Hence  we  form  an  in- 
clination to  eating  and  drinking^  and  to  society/.  A 
good  dinner  in  a  good  company  has  its  attractions  for 
every  one.  The  union  of  sensual  with  intellectual  en- 
joyments during  meals,  was  highly  cultivated  by  the 
Greeks ;  their  syrnposia  are  well  known.  It  seems 
that  by  satisfying  our  sensual  wants,  we  are  left  more 
free,  and  alive  to  those  of  the  mind.  Food  has  certain- 
ly a  soothing  influence  upon  the  mind,  and  it  is  for  this 
reason,  that  while  we  eat  and  drink  we  forget  past 
troubles  and  listen  less  to  the  cares  that  either  harass  u& 


293  PSYCHOLOGY 


m 


for  the  present  or  for  the  future.  Hence  it  is  too,  that 
what  is  said  during  a  meal,  was  thought  by  many  na- 
tions to  be  spoken  in  confidence  and  sacred  ;  and  that 
certain  nations,  as  the  Arabians,  will  not  injure  their 
enemy  after  they  have  eaten  with  him.  The  citizens  of 
Moskau,  gave  their  empress  when  visiting  her,  bread 
and  salt,  and  she  accepting  it,  declared  that  all  her  ap- 
prehensions were  gone.  And  in  modern  times  we  do 
not  invite  every  one  to  eat  and  drink  with  us ;  butlike 
to  feel  at  liberty  during  our  meals,  to  say  what  we  please. 
Kant  has  very  ingeniously  pointed  out  the  course  good 
conversation  should  take  during  a  meal.  Every  thing 
unpleasant  to  any  one,  absent  or  present,  should  be 
avoided,  and  it  should  pass  from  the  mere  narration  of 
the  novelties  of  the  day,  the  contents  of  newspapers,  to 
arguing.  For  in  speaking  of  novelties  and  of  the 
news  of  the  day,  different  views  will  be  expressed,  and 
as  every  one  thinks  well  of  his  own  he  will  politely  de- 
fend them.  Conversation  thus  becomes  more  lively 
and  will  finally  end  in  jesting.  Much  reasoning  fa- 
tigues, especially  towards  the  end  of  a  festival,  since  eat- 
ing makes  one  feel  inclined  to  rest.  Mirth,  languishing 
and  pleasant  allusions  are  useful  to  digestion,  &c.  In- 
clinations to  dancing,  smoking,  and  fashion,  likewise 
proceed  from  our  love  of  life  and  its  enjoyments. 

Our  inclination  to  fashion  concerns  more  the  form  of 
objects,  than  the  objects  themselves.  It  extends  not 
only  to  dress,  but  to  furniture,  style  of  building,  litera- 
ture, art,  and  every  thin^  else  of  which  we  make  use. 
The  inclination  itself  rests  on  an  innate  tendency  to  give 
form  to  whatever  comes  into  our  hands ;  we  are  free  in 
giving  this  form,  and  not  bound,  like  the  spider  or  the 
bee,  to  a  particular  one  for  every  object.  Hence  forms 
are  changeable,  and  this  changeableness  of  formis  what 
is  called  fashion.  Many  object  to  it  because  it  is 
changeable ;  but  every  product  of  man  is  perfectible, 
and  man  seeking  constantly  for  the  best  form  for  dress 
and  every  thing  else,  and  never  finding  the  absolute 
best,  changes  it  without  interruption.  Some  form  our 
dress,  our  furniture  &c.,  must  have:  placing  no  value 
upon  any  particular  one  leaves  us  morally  more  free, 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


293 


than  if  we  either  adhere  to  an  old  fashion,  because  we 
consider  it  best,  or  are  always  anxious  to  be  foremost  in 
every  one.  Kant  therefore  says  correctly,  that  there  are 
fools  in  the  fashion  and  out  of  it.  It  is  weakness  to  speak 
against  fashion.  Since  our  dress  needs  some  form,  and 
which  of  the  many  possible  forms  this  may  be,  is  whol- 
ly immaterial.  Fashion  may  become  useful  ;  for  as  it 
extends  over  the  productions  of  the  mind  :  there  are 
times  when  certain  institutions,  the  study  of  certain 
languages  and  sciences  become  fashionable,  when  we 
feel  incUned  to  imitate  what  is  good  in  other  nations. 

The  inclination  to  smoking  seems  wholly  unnatural. 
It  was  unknown  until  the  discovery  of  America,  and 
thence  spread  over  all  Europe.  It  is  an  ethereal  eat- 
ing,  soothing  and  passing  time.  Though  unnatural,  it 
no  doubt  had  a  very  simple  origin.  Some  think  that 
the  Indians  who  kindled  fire  with  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  tried  to  preserve  it,  by  placing  coals  in  the  stem 
of  a  plant,  and  by  putting  this  plant  into  the  mouth 
whenever  it  became  inconvenient  to  carry  it  in  the 
hand.  Others  are  of  opinion  that  the  Indians,  in  order 
to  protect  themselves  from  musketoes,  made  smoke 
around  themselves,  and  at  first  putting  smoking  plants 
into,  their  mouths  for  convenience  sake,  they  became 
fond  of  them  and  so  formed  by  degrees  a  habit  of  using 
them. 

So  is  our  inclination  to  dancing  natural  in  its  origin. 
The  emotions  of  savages  are  few  in  number,  but  strong 
and  vehement  in  energy.  They  become  sometimes  so 
agitated  that  they  must  open  a  vein  to  obtain  relief. 
Generally,  joyful  occurrences  make  them  to  jump  and 
run  about,  and  in  these  irregular  motions,  those  which 
we  call  dancing  and  which  keep  time  and  rhythm,  orig- 
inated. Dancing  is,  therefore,  the  external  representa- 
tion of  our  internal  emotions  by  the  motions  of  the 
body.  So  soldiers  have  diiferent  marches  for  every 
military  motion,  and  these  marches  accompanied  by 
music  have  their  effects  upon  them.  In  Liefland,  the 
•  reapers  in  harvest  keep  time  with  music.  With  us, 
however,  dancing  does  not  proceed  from  an  emotion, 
but  we  dance  to  excite  one.     The  savage  jumping  about 


294  ,    PSYCIfOLtfGY 


needs  no  music :  he  sings  and  daps  his  hands ;  that  is 
enough  for  him ;  we  must  have  music  the  melodies 
of  which  will  inspire  us  and  dispose  us  to  dancing. 

Manifold  indeed  ar<3  the  inclinations  that  may  arise 
from  the  natural  tendencies  of  our  nature,  all  of  which 
have  reference  to  man  as  an  individual  being.  We  have 
desire  for  knowledge;  when  this  desire  is  satisfied  by 
any  one,  when  we  observe  his  willmgness  and  zeal  to  aid 
us,  we  love  him,  and  this  love  is  that  of  the  scholar  to 
the  teacher.  We  have  a  desire  for  health;  if  we  are 
sick  and  recover  through  the  aid  of  a  skillful  physi- 
cian, we  again  cannot  but  feel  attached  to  him.  And 
so  it  is  with  the  ward^  who  unable  to  defend  his  own 
rights,  will,  as  he  becomes  conscious  of  their  value, 
strongly  incline  to  his  careful,  attentive,  and  disinterest- 
ed guardian.  We  shall  now  consider  self-love  in  its 
negative  form,  in  which  it  is 

SELF-HATRED. 

By  hatred  in  general,  we  understand  here  a  constant 
dislike  to  whatever  could  interfere  with  our  self-love. 
The  object  of  this  hatred  may  either  be  something  ex- 
tenial,  or  the  person  who  hates  himself  so  that  he  is 
himself  the  object  of  his  own  displeasure.  Hating 
himself,  man  desires  to  direct  his  thoughts  away  from 
himself;  filled  by  the  highest  displeasure,  he  would 
forget  himself.  Self-hatred  seems  wholly  unnatural, 
and  the  question  is.  What  is  its  origin  ?  Nothing  but 
self-love.  This  is  paradoxical.  Self-love  seems  to 
be  the  principle  of  self-hatred,  and  this  certainly  is  no 
better  than  to  say  :  a  man  hates  himself  because  he  loVes 
himself.  The  object  of  self  hatred  is  man  himself,  yet 
not  the  whole  of  man,  but  some  one  of  his  qualities, 
closely  and  inseparalely  interwoven  with  his  whole 
character  and  being.  Man  loves  himself  and  would 
like  to  be  as  perfect  in  every  respect  as  possible.  The 
interest  he  takes  in  himself  induces  him  to  sketch  an 
ideal  of  what  he  ought  to  be  :  he  then  compares  him- 
self as  he  is,  with  this  ideal,  and  finding  that  he  is  not 
by  any  means  like  it,  he  receives  pain  from  the  result 


PSYCHOLOGY.  295 

of  this  comparison.  Instead  of  making  a  resolute  at- 
tempt to  improve  his  character,  his  will  seems  diseased 
and  is  inactive,  and  the  displeasure  mingling  with  his 
feelings  of  self-love,  he  avoids  thinkino^  of  himself  and 
hates  himself.  Thus  selj-hatred  originates  only  in 
self-love.  When  in  addition  to  this,  man  becomes 
weary  of  life,  either  because  he  has  spent  his  physical 
powers  in  the  excessive  indulgence  of  sensual  pleasures 
and  hates  their  consta^it  and  monotonous  repetition,  or 
because  he  has  suffered  misfortunes  without  sufficient 
firmness  to  support  himself  properly  under  them — then 
it  is  possible  he  will  commit  suicide.  And  in  the  com- 
mission of  it  we  may  see  that  man  hates  himself  because 
he  loves  himself.  For  what  can  be  the  reason,  for 
which  he  should  desire  to  make  an  end  to  his  own  life  ? 
Either  he  must  desire  to  withdraw  himself  from  an  ac- 
tivity to  which  he  would  have  to  attend  in  order  to  live 
as  is  the  case  with  many  persons  who  have  lost  proper- 
ty or  honor,  or  to  free  himself  from  suffering  like  Mira- 
beau  or  Claviere,  or  to  obtain  an  imagined  happiness 
like  the  Indian  philosopher  Calamus.  In- all  these  in- 
stances however,  we  must  say  that  if  the  self-murderer 
did  not  love  himself,  he  could  not  care  for  life  or  death  ; 
but  taking  interest  in  himself,  he  kills  himself  to  be  free 
from  something  that  is  painful  to  him,  or  obtain  that 
which  he  much  desires.  With  some  flattering  hope  the 
self-murderer  embraces  death.  The  correctness  of 
these  remarks  are  corroborated  by  the  fact,  that  persons 
who  are  particularly  concerned  for  their  life  and  its 
preservation,  very  often  have  an  irresistible  tendency 
to  commit  suicide.  This  has  been  observed  by  Gall. 
Suicide  committed  in  such  an  instance,  is  certainly  the 
fruit  of  an  irregular  self-love. — Nothing  leads,  however, 
more  quickly  to  the  aversion  to  life  than  inactivity. 
When  a  gradual  transition  from  rest  to  labor  is  want- 
ing, time  is  stript  of  interest  and  we  feel  oppressed  with 
its  tediousness.  The  mind  hates  emptiness,  it  feels  a 
horror,  a  void  :  it  desires  to  fill  its  life  with  deeds  and 
actions.  Hence  many,  as  has  been  remarked,  hang 
themselves,  because  time  rests  too  hard  on  them. 

Aversion'is  the  negative,  not  of  self-love  as  such,  but 


41 
296  PSYCltOLOGY. 

of  a  modification  of  it.  When  we  do  not  love  our  self 
as  a  whole  so  much  as  one  of  its  qualities,  say  personal 
beauty,  or  art,  science,  or  anything  that  belongs  to  it, 
then  our  inclination  should  be  called  ''Hove  bf  our  qual- 
itiesy  or  of  that  which  is  ours  and  not  self-love J^ 
This  love  of  what  is  our  own,  is  principally  found 
among  children,  who  love  th6ir  hand  or  tlieir  ei/e,  or 
sometiiing  belongingto  themselves,  but  cannot  yet  form 
a  notion  of  themselves  as  a  whole.  It  is  met  with 
among  women,, and  characterizes  some  nations  as  the 
Athenians  of  ancient,  and  the  French  in  modern  times. 
In  proportion  as  we  love  everything  belonging  to  our- 
selves, we  feel  an  aversion  to  all  that  may  interfere  with 
it.  I  love,  for  example,  health,  and  as  soon  as  I  hear  of 
a  prevaiUng  disease  1  feel  a  strong  aversion  to  it ;  I 
love  wealth  and  hate  to  see  poverty  wrapped  in  rags  : 
we  love  truth  and  in  proportion  as  we  feel  inclined  to  it, 
we  shun  ignorance.  -  Here,  likewise,  suicide  may  be 
committed.  The  honor  of  a  person  is  not  the  person  ; 
yet  it  is  a  high  quality  of  his  character,  and  he  loves  it 
more  than  himself.  If  honor  is  wounded,  and  he  des- 
pairs of  recovering  it,  he  kills  himself.  So  a  lady  loves 
her  beauty  ;  she  is  seized  with  the  small-pox  ;  her  face 
is  covered  with,  marks  and  she  is  ready  to  die. 

SELF-LOVE  AS  A  PASSION. 

Self-love  as  a  passion,  is  selfishness^  and  originates 
when  a  desire  enters  our  self-love.  Th^  desire  is  that 
every  thing  shall  serve  us,  and  exist  only  for  us  to 
the  exclusion  of  every  one  else.  Every  desire  the  end 
of  which  does  not  lie  out  of  the  sphere  of  him  who 
desires,  is  selfish ;  and  when  such  a  desire  enters  into 
an  inclination,  it  converts  the  latter  into  a  passion. 
Passion  renders  the  origin  of  other  inclinations,  if  not 
impossible  at  least  difficult;  hence  the  selfish  man  can- 
not take  interest  in  any  thing  unless  it  has  some  refer- 
ence to  himself  The  man  who  loves  himself  may  love 
others,  but  the  selfish  man  is  incapable  of  loving  from 
disinterested  motives.  Truth  and  beauty  have  value 
for  him  as  far  as  they  are  useful  to  himj  if  he  cannot 


X 


^ 


PSYCHOLOGY.  297 

see  their  immediate  use,  they  leave  him    indifferent. 
The  selfish  man  expects  the  devotion  of  all,  he  expects 
every  one  to  be  active  for  him  ;  but  feels  little  inclined 
to  do  any  thing  for  others.     If  he  is  disappointed  in  his 
expectation  he  feels  unhappy.      He  is   incapable    of 
forming  friendship  because  he  can  only  take  interest 
in  himself.     He  will  break  any  connection  if  it  comes 
in  collision  with  his  interest.     Selfishness  either  con- 
cerns our  whole  self  or  only  parts  of  it.     When   the 
latter  is  the  case,  passions  arise,  when  a  desire  draws 
itself  into   an  inclination,  which  we  have  formed  to 
something,   belonging  to  ourselves,  to  an   attribute  of 
our  character,  to  skill  in  art  or  knowledge,  science, 
(fcc.     I  love  a  science  because  by  labor  and  application, 
I  have  acquired  considerable  knowledge  in  it  and  have 
made  it  my  own.     Now  I  desire  that  every  one  else 
shall  love  it  as  I  do,  and  if  I  discover  that  it  is  not 
generally  favored,  1  become    passionate.      Or   I  am 
strongly  inclined  to  some  practical  object  which  I  have 
in  view  ;  I  desire  the  assistance  and  interest  of  every 
.one,  and  try  to  gain  it  by  all  means  and  ways.     My 
inclination  will  thus  become  a  passion,  and  force  me 
to   sacrifice  rest  and  frequently  honor  to  it.     For  to 
gain  the  interests  of  others,  I  shall  if  my  inclination  has 
become  passion,  accomodate  myself  to  every  one,  agree 
with  every  one's  views  and  nowhere  show  my  own  in 
opposition  to  those  of  others. 

Another  form  of  selfishness  is  passion  for  enjoyment. 
When  our  inclination  to  pleasure  is  pervaded  by  the 
desire  for  every  thing  that  may  serve  it,  when  this  de- 
sire makes  us  hunt  for  pleasures,  then  our  inclination 
is  a  passion.  As  such,  it  renders  all  other  inclinations 
subordinate  to  itself,  and  takes  interest  in  nothingunless 
it  can  be  eaten  or  drunk,  or  made  in  some  way  subserv- 
ient to  our  pleasures.  Works  of  art  and  literature, 
sciences  and  all  intellectual  productions,  have  worth 
only  when  they  can  be  enjoyed  by  way  of  a  refined 
pleasure.  This  passion  exhibits  itself  also  thus.  When 
we  love  life  and  are  willing  to  labor  in  order  to  enjoy 
it,  our  love  is  an  inclination.  But  when  we  desire  en- 
joyments independent  of  labor,  when  we  desire  to  enjoy 

38 


298  PSYCHOLOGY. 

what  others  have  gained  by  their  labor,  or  when  we  de- 
sire others  to  labor  that  we  may  enjoy  the  fruits  of  their 
labors,  then  our  inclination  to  life  and  its  enjoyments  is 
a  passion. 

There  is,  finally,  a  theoretical  egotism  or  selfishness 
which  we  will  merely  mention  here.  It  is  that  egotism, 
which  has  either  laid  down  certain  rules  and  maxims 
for  practical  pursuits  and  for  intercourse  with  men,  all 
of  whom  it  considers  selfish  and  under  the  infiuence  of 
the  same  selfish  rules  which  it  has  adopted,  and  on  the 
execution  of  which  it  insists  with  a  singular  perseverance. 
Or  it  is  egotism  in  theory,  science,  which  considers  its 
judgments  and  views  and  hypotheses  to  be  infallible, 
and  expects  all  others  to  yield  to  them. 

SELF-LOVE  AS  PASSION  IN  ITS  NEGATIVE  FORM. 

Here  it  is  self-hatred,  as  represented  above,  that  be- 
comes a  terrible  passion,  in  which  man  constantly  tor- 
tures and  vexes  himself;  for  he  is  not  satisfied  either 
with  himself  or  with  any  thing  in  himself,  and  this  pas- 
sion may  be  compared  to  the  bodily  disease  called  epi-  • 
lepsy.  In  this  disease  every  nerve  touches  and  wounds 
the  other,  and  every  muscle  affects  the  other  with  pain; 
the  whole  body  seems  to  be  in  conflict  with  itself^  and 
seems  to  be  determined  to  ruin  itself  by  its  own  remain- 
ing strength.  The  individual  is  sick  through  his  own 
nerves  and  muscles  ;  nerves  and  muscles  are  not  attack- 
ed from  without,  but  they  afflict  each  other  mutually. 
So  it  is  with  self-hatred  when  it  is  kindled  into  o.  pas- 
sion. The  dissatisfaction  of  man  with  himself  is  a  per- 
manent one  and  he  cannot  think  of  himself  without  the 
greatest  pain.  He  consumes  his  lite  in  bitterness,  for  in 
all  he  does  and  undertakes,  he  will  perceive  frailties, 
and  these  will  so  attract  his  attention  that  he  cannot  see 
the  good  mingled  with  them.  If  he  could  do  the  latter, 
he  would  mend  what  is  imperfect  and  go  joyfully  from 
one  degree  of  improvement  to  another.  The  artist 
while  he  finishes  a  work,  may  notice  its  frailties,  but  hav- 
ing finished  it,  he  has  improved  himself  and  commen- 
ces a  new  work  with  a  determination  to  execute  it,  as 


PSYCHOLOGY.  299 

much  more  skillfally  as  his  own  power  has  been  raised, 
and  so  he  advances  himself  by  every  work  and  with  him- 
self all  his  productions.  The  man  dissatisfied  with  him- 
self finds  all  his  thoughts  constantly  drawn  to  his  frail- 
ties and  weaknesses,  and  cannot  turn  them  away  from 
them.  It  seems  as  if  every  possible  pleasure  in  life  or 
that  man  could  take  in  himself  was  suddenly  suppres- 
sed, because  the  higher  idea  which  man  has  of  himself, 
and  of  genuine  pleasure  cannot  enter  on  such  pleasures 
as  being  beneath  it.  This  discord  like  an  electric  spark 
passes  through  every  feeling  of  pleasure  that  man  might 
derive  from  his  productions  or  life,  or  anything  that  life 
offers.  For  once  at  war  with  himself  he  is  so  with  every 
thing  else,  and  finds  fault  with  whatever  comes  from 
the  hand  of  man.  Every  thing  human  is  imperfect ; 
but  it  has  likewise  something  good  ;  the  man  dissatisfied 
with  himself  and  the  world,  will  every  where  see  only 
the  faults  and  not  the  beauties.  He  is  morose,  and  as 
the  proverb  says,  finds  fault  with  the  fly  crawling  on 
the  wall.  There  is  no  innocent  pleasure,  no  work,  no 
science  in  which  he  does  not  find  something  to  cen- 
sure. 

And  finally,  one  aversion  to  life  may  become  a  pas- 
sion and  then  it  may  be  called  ill  humor.  In  it  man 
desires  every  thing,  and  is  satisfied  with  nothing.  No 
joy  and  no  hope,  no  knowledge  and  no  skill  is  equal 
to  his  anticipations.  Dissatisfaction  alone  is  perma- 
nent, but  its  objects  are  in  a  constant  flow.  This  ill  hu- 
mor differs  widely  from  the  humor  of  the  poet.  He  is 
likewise  conscious  of  the  infinite  and  great,  and  of  the 
deficiencies  of  every  human  work  and  pursuit.  But  in- 
stead of  finding  fault  with  these  deficiencies  and  becom- 
ing morose,  the  poet  by  his  power  of  language  represents 
the  contrasts  between  the  infinite  and  the  trifling  anxiety, 
and  solicitude  expressed  by  man  for  the  finite  and  the 
stress  laid  on  little  things,  and  thus  renders  the  trifling 
cares  of  man  ridiculohs,  yet  without  bitterness  or  satire. 
^e  uses  the  infinite  as  a  mirror,  and  making  the  pur- 
suits of  man  reflect  themselves  in  it,  he  effects  all  he  de* 
sires. 


# 


300  '  PSYCHOLOGY. 


II.   INCLINATIONS  ARISING  FROM  THE  RELATION  OF 
MAN  TO  HIS  FELLOW-MEN. 

LOVE  OF  PROPERTY. 

The  notion  of  property  pre-supposes  a  relation  of  men 
to  each  other,  in  which  they  are  united  at  least  for  the 
purpose  of  protecting  each  other  and  what  they  possess. 
In  this  relation  every  one  must  have  something,  a  bow 
or  a  net,  a  staff  or  a  herd  of  cattle.  Separated  from  all 
the  rest,  isolated  like  Robinson  Crusoe  on  a  distant  island, 
a  man  could  not  have  property,  for  though  the  whole 
island  might  be  his  by  the  law  of  taking  first  possession, 
there  would  be  no  law  to  protect  him  in  his  property. 
Only  when  many  are  united  so  that  one  has  a  property 
from  the  possession  and  use  of  which  every  one  else  is 
excluded,  we  speak  of  property  and  not  until  then.  If 
love  of  property  is  impossible  without  a  relation  of  the 
possession  to  other  men,  it  is  impossible  likewise  with- 
out a  notion  of  property  and  its  value.  There  are  ani- 
mals that  in  collecting  a  small  provision  for  the  inclem- 
ent seasons  seem  to  have  an  idea  of  time  as  something 
future,  for  they  lay  up  for  future  wants,  and  oi proper ty^ 
for  they  attempt  to  defend  it  when  it  is  attacked.  So 
the  bees  guard  their  honey,  cows  on  the  Alps  of  Swit- 
zerland seize  certain  objects,  and  defend  them  vehement- 
ly from  others.  The  German  rat  gathers  in  a  great 
quantity  of  wheat,  and  many  poor  persons  seek  its  holes 
and  take  the  fruits  of  its  labors.  Yet  no  one  would  se- 
riously say  that  animals  truly  have  property,  or  else  man 
would  steal,  as  often  as  he  makes  use  of  their  provisions 
without  their  permission.  They  have  no  idea  of  prop- 
erty nor  of  time,  and  they  defend  what  they  instinctive- 
ly gather  from  an  impulse  of  their  nature  and  not  from 
a  feeling  of  right.  The  idea  of  property  is  therefore 
necessary,  to  form  an  inclination  to  it.  Where  it  is 
wanting  there  is  no  inclination.  Children  of  rich  pa# 
rents,  may  have  a  great  deal  of  property,  yet  they  have 
no  idea  of  it.  They  know  not  the  value'  of  wealth  and 
hence  do  not  care  for  it.     If  their  parents  are  dead  we 


-<^- 
%• 


PSYCHOLOGY.  301 

place  them  under  the  care  of  guardians,  when  they  grow 
and  become  of  age,  they  generally  form  a  strong  incli- 
nation to  property,  for  they  have  then  become  conscious 
of  its  value.  As  an  inclination  to  property  is  impossi- 
ble without  an  idea  of  it,  so  we  must  have  an  idea  of 
time,  and  its  duration  ;  for  property  is  to  be  permanent, 
to  endure  in  time.  The  apple  when  eaten,  is  no  longer 
the  property  of  any  one ;  but  the  tree,  from  which  it 
was  plucked  will  bear  apples  again.  The  child,  how- 
ever, will  give  the  whole  tree  for  a  single  apple. 

The  love  of  property  pre-supposes  therefore  an  object^ 
from  the  possession  and  use  of  which  every  one  else  is 
excluded^  a  notion  of  time  and  the  value  of  -property 
as  a  m>eans  of  support  in  all  time.  The  less  persons 
are  accustomed  to  look  ahead,  the  less  strong  will  be 
their  love  of  property.  Savages  have  no  clear  idea  of  lime 
in  its  three  great  divisions,  the  past,  the  present,  and 
future  ;  their  social  life  is  not  well-regulated,  and  their 
loveof  property  is  consequently  weak.  They  live  by- 
fishing,  and  the  chase,  and  their  unerring  shafts  easily 
make  the  wild  bird  or  the  stag  their  property.  But  such 
property  is  of  no  duration  ;  the  bow  and  the  arrows,  the 
net  and  the  trap  are  the  only  permanent  property  of 
savages.  The  momentary  want  demands  their  labor, 
but  the  want  being  satisfied  they  do  not  trouble  them- 
selves any  further.  The  property  of  Nomades  stands  on 
somewhat  higher  ground.  Their  social  life  is  more  close 
and  settled,  and  their  notion  of  time  is  more  accurate. 
Living  on  the  milk  of  animals,  they  must  raise  and  pro- 
tect them.  Yet  their  property  is  still  movable,  like 
that  of  savages.  Cain  kills  Abel ;  the  farmer  supplants 
the  wandering  herdsman.  Where  agriculture  prevails, 
the  notion  of  time  becomes  strong  and  clear,  for  the  farmer 
depends  on  seasons.  Farms  cannot  be  moved  ;  the  ob- 
ject of  property  is  therefore  permanent.  But  while  thus 
the  character  of  property  becomes  permanent  and  im- 
movable, it  is  not  wholly  adapted  to  the  changeable- 
ness  of  time  and  to  our  own  mutability.  The  farm,  the 
house,  the  garden,  will  always  remain  on  the  same 
spot,  though  we  may  desire  to  change  our  residence. 
Now  it   might  be   that  two,  either  of  whom  would 


wt 


302  PSYCHOLOGY. 

desire  the  property  of  the  other,  might  make  an 
exchange.  Such  instances  would,  however,  be  rare. 
It  will  be  more  frequently  the  case  that,  one  anxious 
to  relinquish  his  estate  for  the  purpose  of  seeking 
another  residence,  might  find  one  willing  to  sell  his,  but 
not  to  exchange  it,  and  then  a  medium  would  be  re- 
quired, by  which  to  represent  the  respective  value  of 
each  property.  This  representative  of  property  is  found 
even  among  savages,  and  consists  principally  in  some 
thing  rare,  as  rare  feathers,  shells,  or  birds.  In  the 
Old  Testament,  however,  money  is  mentioned.  It  is 
the  representative  among  all  civilized  nations,  and  the 
question  is  ;  What  is  the  reason  that  gold  and  silver  arei 
used  for  this  purpose  ? 

The  hypotheses  on  this  subject  are  different,  as  they 
-take  into  consideration  one  or  the  other  quality  of  prop- 
erty. One  of  its  qualities  is  that  it  must  have  been  gain- 
ed by  labor.  The  apple  I  eat,  plucking  it  from  the  tree 
of  another,  is  not  mine  in  the  sense  in  which  I  call  the 
fruit  of  that  tree  mine,  which  I  have  grafted,  and  upon 
which  I  have  bestowed  much  care.  Hence  they  say 
that  silver  and  gold,  and  the  precious  metals  are  only  to 
be  brought  forth  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  by  much 
labor,  and  for  this  reason  they  are  well  qualified  to  re- 
present property,  for  it  must  also  have  been  earned  by 
diligence,  if  not  directly  by  our  own,  by  that  of  those 
from  whom  we  inherited  it.  They  are  rare  too,  not 
very  abundant,  and  consequently  their  value  will  place  a 
proper  estimate  on  property  in  general.  Yet  property 
may  be  gained  without  labor  ;  a  thing  belonging  to  no 
one  becomes  mine  by  my  mere  will  to  take  possession 
of  it,  for  res  nullius  cedit  primo  occupanti.  Others, 
therefore,  have  directed  their  attention  to  the  use  to  be 
made  of  property,  and  said,  the  representative  of  proper- 
ty ought  to  be  something  which  cannot  itself  be  used 
for  any  thing  else.  The  design  of  property  is,  to  be 
used  ;  if  that  which  represents  it,  can  be  used,  then  it 
becomes  apart  of  property,  and  not  its  mere  representa- 
tive. It  might  effect  exchanges,  but  not  sales.  Yet  we 
have  innumerable  articles  made  of  gold  and  silver,  and 
this  hypothesis  is  not  therefore  fully  correct.     Hence  we 


PSYCHOLOGY.  303 

must  keep  a  different  quality  of  property  in  view,  and  this 
is  its  permanency  and  duration.     Of  all  bodies  the  pre- 
cious metals  are  the  most  durable  ;  gold  and   silver  re- 
tain their  nature  in  all  the  changes  they  may  have  to 
undergo  ;  lead,  iron,  and  copper  are  destructible.  Again  ; 
precious  metals  cannot  be  imitated,  and  if  mixed  with 
inferior  substances,  it  is  easy  to  detect  it.     It  is  remark- 
able that  many  persons  love  its  representative  more  than 
property  itself;  they  prefer  money  to  that,  the  value 
of  which  it  represents.     The  reason  perhaps  is,  that 
money  is  more  movable,  that  it  is  the  same  every  where. 
The  elements  of  the  pleasure  we  take  in  the  posses-' 
sion  of  property  are  many,  and  among  them  are  the  fol- 
lowing :  Property  in  general,  the  possession  of  earthly 
objects,  increases  the  feelings  of  our  existence  ;  for  what 
we  possess  attaches  itself  to  us.     Hence  the  possession 
of  property  gives  us  a  feeling  of  greater  importance,  in- 
fluence, and  security.     Again  :  all  property  is  to  serve 
as  means,  either  for  the  satisfaction  of  bodily^  or  intel- 
lectual^ or  moral  wants  and  activities,  and  if  the  satis- 
faction of  these  wants  is  pleasant,  the  possession  of  the 
means  must  be  so.     Property  secures  to  us  a  certain 
degree  of  independence.     It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  fol- 
low out  and  execute  one's  own  plans.     But  to  do  this  de- 
mands property.     In  proportion  as  any  one  has  wealth, 
he  will  feel  inclined  to  think  that  he  can  do  what  he  wills, 
and  this  again  is  pleasant.     Some  love  the  acquisition 
of  property,  more  than  property.     Activity  is  pleasant 
in  itself  and  is  the  soul  of  life  ;  if  the  activity  which  we 
employ  for  something  that  we  may  call  our  own  is 
successful,  it  may  become  the  object  of  our  inclination. 
And  as  the  acquisition,  so  i\\e  preservation  of  property 
may  be  the  object  of  an  inclination,  which  may  be  call- 
ed economy.     Property  has  reference  to  the  future,  and 
every  one  who  is  wise  will  be  impressed  with  the  neces- 
sity of  preserving  the  means  of  support  after  they  have 
once  been  acquired,  and  of  maintaining  the   balance 
between  one's  income  and  expenses,  lest  the  fruits  of  la- 
bor be  overbalanced  by  the  pleasures  of  enjoyments. 
This  inclination  is  found  in  all  classes  of  men,  yet 
the  higher  classes  are  much  more  frequently  inclined 


304  psYCHotoay. 

to  spend  freely.  Artists,  poets,  and  persons  of  the  same 
or  similar  employments  are  frequently  poor.  Socrates 
had  little  or  nothing  ;  Luther  died,  leaving  his  estate  in- 
volved in  debt ;  Melancthon  knew  not  how  to  preserve 
what  he  earned,  or  what  was  presented  to  him,  and  Cal- 
vin left  nothing  oi*note.  Nevertheless  the  inclination 
to  the  preservation  of  property  is  a  useful  one,  and  if 
exercised  in  the  proper  spirit  is  a  virtue. 

LOVE  OF  PROPERTY  AS  A  PASSION-. 

All  property  is  to  be  considered  as  means  for  some  end, 
it  is  to  be  used,  to  be  consumed,  for  it  has  no  value  what- 
ever, unless  it  is  employed,  But  when  one's  love  to  prop- 
erty has  degenerated  into  a  passion,  our  relation  to  it  has 
been  changed,  and  while  before  we  considered  it  meansj 
we  now  regard  it  as  the  end  of  all  our  activity  and  of 
our  life.  It  is  generally  said  that  too  great  inclination 
to  property  or  a  desire  for  too  great  an  amount  becomes 
a  passion  ;  but  both  definitions  are  wrong.  My  incli- 
nation to  property  may  be  very  great,  and  I  still  may 
feel  at  liberty  to  use  it  for  my  bodily  support,  for  my 
pleasures,  or  the  promotion  of  benevolent  objects,  and 
as  long  as  I  can  do  so,  1  am  not  under  the  dominion  of 
a  passion.  And  again  it  is  wrong  to  say  that  where  a 
too  large  amount  is  desired,  we  have  yielded  to  a  pas- 
sion. For  what  is  much  or  little  on  the  scale  of  wealth  1 
We  call  him  well  off  who  has  as  much  as  he  needs. 
But  the  rational  man  needs  not  much  to  live  on,  for  na- 
ture is  satisfied  with  little, — Natura  paucis  contenta  ; 
yet  another  needs  an  amount  which  some  would  call 
much.  The  ideas  of  riches  are,  therefore,  relative,  and 
from  them  we  cannot  derive  a  definition  of  avarice  or 
coveteousness.  It  cannot  be  the  object  of  an  inclination 
either  that  converts  it  into  a  passion  ;  it  remains  the 
same,  though  its  quantity  should  be  greater  or  less. 
Nor  can  it  be  the  idea  we  form  of  this  object ;  for  this 
may  be  infinite  as  the  object  itself,  and  still  not  force  us 
to  form  a  passion  for  it.  When  a  man  would  rather 
lose  his  life  than  his  property,  when  he  would  rather 
starve  himself  and  his  family,  than  use  his  money  as 


PSYGHOLOG^J'.  305 

means,  when  consequently  his  property  is  his  idol  for 
which  he  labors  and  lives,  when  he  is  no  longer  free 
but  the  slave  of  his  idol,  then  instead  of  an  inclination 
to  property  he  heis  a  passion  for  it.  The  relation  of  the 
person  to  his  property  has  been  changed;  the  difference 
between  this  inclination  and  its  corresponding  passions 
is  one  relating  to  quality  and  not  merely  one  to  quan- 
tity. Passions  pervert  what  is  originally  correct. 
What  is  means  becomes  an  end,  and  what  ought  to  be  , 
the  end  becomes  means.  Money  becomes  the  end,  and 
the  persons  the  means  for  its  acquisition  and  preserva- 
tion. It  is  not  he  that  has  the  money,  but  the  money 
has  him.  Money  is  the  substance  and  being  of  his  life, 
he  is  its  accidence.  This  appears  clearly  from  the  man- 
ner, in  which  the  man  whose  idol  is  money,  treats  him- 
self and  all  others.  He  that  has  nothing  is  worth  no* 
thing  in  his  view  ;  ^property  and  not  personality  makes 
with  him  the  man  !  WJien  he  holds  iHte'rcourse  with 
men,  his  motive  is  the  anticipation  of  some  benefit  or 
advantage  which  he  may  derive  from  such  an  inter- 
course. If  he  cannot  gain  somethings  he  will  not  seek 
the  society  of  any  one.  Again,  he  frets  himself  in  the 
same  way.  If  he  loses  what  he  possesses,  his  joys  are 
gone,  and  life  being  stripped  of  its  highest  good  for  him, 
he  kills  himself. 

Love  of  property^  as  a  passion,  presents  itself  under 
two  different  forms,  for  we  either  delight  in  the  acquisi- 
tion of  property,  and  then  it  is  covetousness  or  self-in- 
terest ;  or  we  delight  in  its  preservation  and  then  it  is 
avarice. 

1.  Covetousness  is  the  passion  that  desires  constantly 
to  add  to  the  stock  we  already  have.  The  covetous  man 
knows  of  but  one  good, — property,  or  money — he  there- 
fore indulges  not  any  other  passion  that  might  interfere) 
with  this.  He  desifres  an  infinite  increase  of  his  wealth, 
and  yet  knows  of  no  end,  for  which  to  use  it.  He  does 
not  care  very  particularly  how  he  obtains  his  posses- 
sions if  he  has  only  a  legal  title  to  them.  "  He  removes 
landmarks,  seizes  every  thing  his  debtor  has,  lest  he 
<should  lose  interest,  demands  the  reward  before  he  as- 
sists the  sufferer,  and  will  rather  see  the  corpsa  of  the 

39 


306  PSYCHOLOGY. 

Stranger  exposed  by  the  way-side  than  bury  it  without 
being  certain  of  his  fee."  It  is  not  necessary,  however, 
that  the  covetous  man  cheat,  and  make  use  of  immoral 
means  to  obtain  his  possession.  He  may  be  the  pru-: 
dent,  cool,  calculating  arithmetician  who  well  knows 
that  honesty  is  the  best  means  of  attaining  his  grand 
object.  The  covetous  is  always  the  self-interested. 
For  in  all  he  does,  says,  and  undertakes,  he  has  only 
his  own  advantage  In  view ;  and  nothing  else  can 
move  him  to  do  any  thing.  - 

-  2.  Avarice  has  for  its  objects  the  preservation  of  its 
property.  The  avaricious,  mistakijig  its  true  value, 
will  not  suffer  himself  to  use  it  for  any  purpose,  not 
even  for  the  necessaries  of  lite.  The  miser  who  stumbled 
against  a  stone  and  hurt  his  toe,  exclaimed,  "  it  was 
wbU  that  I  had  not  on  my  shoe,  or  else  I  should  have 
torn  it."  The  avaricious  man  denies  himself  every 
pleasure,  lest  he  should  receive  detriment  in  that  which 
is  so  dear  to  him.  He  knows  of  ho  "greater  happiness 
than  to  count  his  guineas  again  and  again.  He  con- 
ceals them  with  the  mostanxious  care,  and  returns  alarm- 
ed to  see  if  he  has  left  the  slightest  clew  that  might  lead 
to  the  discovery  of  his  heart's  treasures.  The  English 
millionaire  dressed  in  the  rags  of  a  beggar,  and  on  a  fam- 
ished horse  travels  from  province  to  province  in  search 
of  his  idol ;  he  feeds  his  horse  upon  hedges,  dips  his 
hard  bread  in  water  and  returns  with  a  full  purse,  con- 
cealing the  guineas  thus  gained  in  the  torn  hangings  of 
a  distant  room,  where  his  son-in-law,  to  whom  he  had 
given  his  daughter  empty-handed,  after  much,  seeking 
finds  them.  This  is  the  true  character  of  the  avari- 
cious man.  Yet  he  must  live,  he  must  eat  and  drink, 
and  must  spend  something;  but  he  will  try  to  get  every 
thing  for  the  lowest  price  and  of  the  cheapest  kind.  He 
is  cold  and  hard  as  the  metal  that  he  loves,  selfish  in  the  ■ 
highest  degree,  unwilling  to  give  or  lend,  or  assist  in  any' 
way  ;  hence  he  is  hated  by  all,  loved  by  none. — The  con- 
ditions required  for  the  origin  ofcovetousness  or  avarice, 
may  be  the  idea  a  person  entertains  of  the  influence 
which  wealth  gives,  and  its  power  to  grant  access  to 
gratifications  of  every  kind  ;  an  avaricious  man  of  this 


PSYCHbLOCfY.  307 

character  willbe  anxious  to  have  the  full  extent  of  his 
wealth  known;  Or  the  idea  of  the  usefulness  of  money- 
is  lost,  especially  when  no  other  desire  keeps  it  alive, 
and  the  avaricious  man  Ibves  money  for  its  own  sake 
and  finds  his  sole  pleasure  in  hoarding  it.  Such  a  one 
will  wish  to  appear  poor  to  the  world.  Others  fear 
poverty  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  like  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham, who  though  possessed  of  immense  wealthj  feared 
he  would  die  poor  as  a  church  mouse. 

Prodigality  is  the  opposite  of  avarice.  The  prodigal 
spends  what  he  has  without  thought  of  the  future. 
His  desire  is  to  live  and  enjoy  life.  "  He  loses  self-con- 
trol and  stabilty  of  character,  and  is  influenced  in  all  his 
resolutions  by  the  allurements  of  sensuality.  He  pur- 
chases what  is  offered  and  pays  double  interest  to  get  the 
money.  Every  whim  that  strikes  his  fancy  is  indulged, 
and  every  duty  neglected ;  while  his  family  is  suffering 
from  want,  he  feasts  his  associates  in  pleasure.  He  very 
generously  pays  those  who  assist  him  in  the  execution 
of  his  wishes,  but  leaves  his  faithful  servants  who  labor 
for  his  real  benefit,  unrewarded.  Louis  XV.,  of  France, 
spent  2,000,000  o^  francs  a  week  on  his  profligacy,  and 
suffered  his  most  faithful  officers  to  starve.  The  spend- 
thrift makes  presents  when  he  cannot  redeem  his  notes. 
He  must  come  to  a  miserable  end,  for  his  expenses  are 
sufficient  to  swallow  up  the  greatest  fortune.  He  will 
then  drown  his  cares  in  increased  dissipation,  in  gam- 
bling and  drinking,  and  finally  terminate 'his  career  by 
suicide."  The  spendthrift  may  be  amiable,  the  miser  is 
always  detestable  ;  the  spendthrift  loves  society  and 
shares  his  pleasures  with  others,  the  avaricious  loves 
none  but  himself  He  is  proud  and  haughty  to  those 
who  ask  his  assistance,  hard  to  his  nearest  relatives  who 
depend  on  him  ;  and  prepared  to  encounter  even  con- 
tempt if  he  can  gain  by  it.  The  object  of  the  co^?e^o?^5 
man  may  be  enjoyment  and  a  splendid  style  of  living, 
but  he  is  ever  careful  lest  he  should  injure  his  estate  by 
his  expenditures,  and  makes  every  effort  to  increase  his 
wealth  at  the  same  time  that  he  appears  to  spend  it  free- 
ly. It  is  said  in  the  Bible  that  it  is  more  difficult  for  a 
rich  man  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  God,  than  for  a  camel 


308  -     PSYCHOLOGY. 

to  go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle.  The  question  here 
oiFers  itself;  Why  is  this  so?  Is  there  any  thing  in 
property  itself  that  renders^t  impossible  to  preserve  pu- 
rity of  heart  or  to  become  a  christian  ?  This  cannot  be, 
for  this  Bible  admonishes  us  to  gather  property,  by  say- 
ing :  "Let  him  that  stole,  steal  no  more,  but  rather  let 
him  labor,  working  with  his  hands  the  thing  which  is 
good,  that  he  may  have  to  give  to  him  that  needethP 
It  is  said  by  some,  that  riches  expose  to  many  tempta- 
tions, that  they  fill  man  with  too  great  a  love  of  earth, 
&c. ; — but  poverty  and  want  are  no  less  trying  and 
tempting,  for  if  riches  may  lead  to  pride,  haughtiness, 
vanity  and  sensual  pleasures,  poverty  may  lead  to  flat- 
tery, falsehood,  fraud,  theft  and  murder.  The  posses- 
sion of  property  is  necessary,  and  the  greater  or  less 
amount  is  here  of  no  consequence.  And  yet  the  Bible 
declares  riches  a  great  obstacle  in  the  way  of  our  salva- 
tion. It  is  not  riches  T^ut  ih^  value  we  place  upon  them, 
that  causes  this  difficulty.  When  w€  consider  it  as  the 
highest  good,  when  our  desire  for  it  makes  us  forget  our 
duties  to  God  and  man,  when  we  are  covetous  and  ava- 
ricious, then  it  is  more  difficult  for  us  to  enter  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  than  for  a  camel  to  go  through  the  eye  of 
aneedle.  And  to  be  rich  In  this  sense,  it  is  not  necessa- 
ry that  we  should  have  great  possessions ;  the  man  who 
has  but  a  cottage  may  value  wealth  as  much  as  he  who 
possesses  millions ;  he  may  be  tortured  day  and  night 
by  his  thirst  for  wealth.  Again  :  covetousness  and  ava^ 
rice  destroy  all  morality,  As  passions  they  regard  noth- 
ing that  is  in  their  way;  but  every  impediment  only, 
serves  to  increase  their  energy  and  power  and  makes 
them  more  violent.  The  avaricious  man  expects  to  be- 
come rich  without  God,  and  does  not  hesitate  to  use  any 
means  that  may  lead  to  his  favorite  object.  Not  faith- 
ful to  his  God,  he  cannot  be  expected  to  be  so  to  his  fel- 
low-men. His  honor  is  to^gain  his  object  by  craftiness, 
his  happiness  to  increase  his  wealth.  And  from  the 
abundance  of  his  heart,  his  mouth  speaks.  What  does 
not  bring  him  gold  is  unworthy  of,  his  .attention.  He 
will  violate  his  duty  to  parents  and  children,  friends 
and  benefactors  if  it  comes  in  contact  with  his  passion  ; 


PSYCHOLOGY,  309 

nothing  is  too  sacred  to  be  sacrificed  to  money,  even 
his  honor  has  a  price.  No  pledge  is  inviolable  to  him, 
no  contract  will  he  keep  unless  forced  by  law  or  self- 
interest  ;  he  will  betray  his  friend  as  Judas  betrayed  the 
Savior.  Thus  he  sunders  the  nerve  of  human  society, 
poisons  the  fountains  of  social  life,  destroys  confidence 
and  good  faith,  and  substitutes  in  their  place  suspicion 
and  distrust. 

But  there  is  another  characteristic  of  covetousness  and 
avarice  to  be  considered.  It  is  cold  and  deliberate^  and 
unlike  other  passions,  increases-  with  age.  The  lower 
the  flame  of  light  burns,  the  weaker  the  fire  of  imagina- 
tion grows,  the  stronger  and  more  exclusive  it  becomes. 
With  great  care  the  avaricious  man  extinguishes  all 
nobler  emotions,  lest  they  should  lead  him  off  from  the 
great  object  of  his  desires,  lest  a  kindly  feeling  should 
in  a  moment  of  weakness  cause  him  to  overlook  his  ad- 
vantage and  to  commit  an  inconsiderate  action,  as  he 
would  Call  it.  With  age  the  ardor  of  our  feelings  de- 
creases, and  avarice  that  had  before  to  contend  with 
them,  increases  in  proportion  as  our  understanding  be- 
comes more  cool,  more  calculating.  With  most  other 
passions  this  is  the  opposite  ;  Dante,  in  his  Divina  Co- 
media,  meets  the  avaricious  in  the  seventh  circle  of  hell, 
and  represents  them  as  having  a  purse  hanging  around 
the  neck  on  which  they  look  with  childish  delight. 

The  idea  of  property  itself  leads  to  great  selfishness, 
for  property  is  exclusive  ;  and  if  instead  of  endeavoring 
to  enable  ourselves,  we  yield  to  low  passions,  riches 
must  become  a  teeming  source  of  selfishness.  The 
correct  view  on  the  subject  before  us  is  that  all  property 
takes  its  rise  in  the  will  of  God  ;  for  the  earth  and  all 
that  it  contains,  is  his.  Before  the  fall  there  was  no 
mine  and  thine^  but  all  was  common  to  those  that 
could  use  it.  With  the  fall  selfishness  rose  in  man,  ab- 
sorbing by  its  bitter  root  all  healthful  juice. .  Now  each 
sought  for  the  center  of  his  existence  in  himself,  and 
forgetting  the  common  origin  of  all,  he  no  longer  re- 
cognized a  brother  in  a  fellow-man,  but  saw  in  himself 
a  stranger.  In  this  selfishness  man  grasped  after  all 
around  him :  without  an  intervening  law  the  stronger 


310  PSYCHOLOGY. 

of  our  race  would  have  deprived  the  weaker  ones  of  the 
most  necessary  means  of  sustenance.  But  God,  from 
eternal  love,  appointed  the  right  of  property,  lest  men 
fighting  for  possessions  destroy.each  other.  Now  every 
right  imposes  a  duty,  and  the  enjoyment  of  all  rights  de- 
pends on  the  fulfillment  of  our  duties  ;  so  that  one  can 
preserve  his  property  only  by  abstaining  from  that  of 
others.  It  was  for  this  purpose  that  God  permitted  men 
to  divide  the  earth  and  its  productions,  that  those  who 
in  their  sinfulness  were  inclined  to  say  ;  "  all  is  mine  !" 
might  learn  to  say,  "  these  things  are  not  mine  !  from 
them  I  must  abstain  however  great  my  desire  to  possess 
them."  Property  was  intended  not  io  strengthen  our 
selfishness,  but  to  bridle  it,  to  break  and  subdue  our 
selfish  will. ,,  As  rich  and  poor  must  live  together,  a 
great  variety  of  duties  of  love  and  kindness,  originate  in 
their  mutual  relation,  which  only  become  possible  by 
the  possession  of  property.  But  the  avaricious  man 
perverts  all  this,  and  makes  wealth  the  source  of  rude, 
resistless  selfishness:  of  quarrels  and  law-suits,  of  en- 
mity and  hatred. 

It  may  be  well  to  remark,  in  conclusion,  that  the  term 
riches  does  not  refer  solely  to  that  property  the  represen- 
tative of  which  is  money,  but  to  every  thing,  science, 
honor,  skill  or  whatever  it  may  be,  in  the  possession  of 
which  man  feels  himself  rich,  and  which  he  desires  as 
the  highest  good.  The  objects  of  our  riches  may  be 
different,  the  power  exercised  over  u&  by  them  will  be 
the  same.  Is  honor  the  object  of  our  passion  ?  the  tie 
that  fastens  us  to  earth  and  draws  us  away  from  God  is 
ambition.  Is  the  object  beauty  ?  the  tie  is  vanity ; 
is  \i  knowledge  1  i\\Q  tie  is  literary  fame.  In  each  of 
them  we  are  fettered  by  sin,  for  truth  alone,  that  comes 
from  Christ,  can  make  us  free.  Taking  the  term  ava- 
rice in  this  extensive  sense,  it  may  be  justly  said,  that  it 
is  the  root  of  all  evil.  Christ  demands  our  whole  affec- 
tion and  whatever  we  love  on  earth,  must  have  a  refer- 
ence to  his  kingdom,  and  we  must  love  it  only  because 
of  this  its  relation.  No  rich  man,  none  that  feels  rich  in 
any  thing  out  of  Christ,  can  therefore  enter  the  king- 
dom of  heaven. 


PSYCHOLOGY.  311 


LOVE  OF  HONOR. 


Personal  honor  was  as  little  known  among  the  an- 
cients as  personal  liberty.  The  honor  and  liberty  of 
the  nation  was  that  of  each  individual  citizen,  and 
Cato  living  wholly  in  the  thought  of  national  liberty, 
kills  himself,  when  he  considers  it  lost  because  he 
knows  of  none,  belonging  to  himself,  as  an  individual. 
"In  the  IHad  it  is  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  which  is  the 
moving  principle  on  which  all  the  rest  becomes  depend- 
ent, but  it  is  not  what  we  in  modern  times  understand 
by  honor.  The  offence  felt  by  Achilles  does  not  con- 
cern his  honor,  but  he  is  grieved  because  Agamemnon 
has  taken  away  his  portion  of  the  spoils,  his  yepas,  an  hon- 
orary reward  for  his  bravery.  The  violation^ concerns 
something  real,  a  gift,  into  which  it  is  true  some  pre- 
ference, some  acknowledgment  of  bravery  and  glory  is 
placed  ;  and  Achilles  is  enraged,  because  Agamemnon 
meets  him  in  an  unworthy  manner  and  declares  that 
he  will  not  regard  him  among  the  Greeks — yet  the  true 
feeling  of  honor  is  no  where  perceptible  in  Achilles. 
This  appears  too  from  the  fact,  that  he  is  fully  satisfied, 
when  he  receives  back  the-  portion,  taken  away  from 
him,  with  some  additional  presents ;  and  also  from  the 
circumstance,  that  Agamemnon  is  ready  to  make  this 
reparation,  though  both  according  to  our  vievvs  have 
rudely  abused  each  other.  They  roused  their  anger 
by  abusive  words,,  but  not  their  feelings  of  honor." 
Our  principal  question  here  of  course  must  be :  What 
do  we  understand  by  honor?  By  external  honor  we 
understand  the  good  opinion  which  our  fellow-men  have 
of  bur  qualities,  of  our  character  or  of  ourselves.  Hon- 
or is  therefore  not  anything  tangible  or  material  like 
property,  it  wholly  is  ideal,  and  love  of  honor  is  but  the 
value  we  place  upon  the  opinion,  which  others  form  of  us 
or  of  our  qualities.  A  man  that  does  not  care  for  this 
opinion,  will  not  care  for  honor.  Our  fellow-men  will 
in  general  value  what  is  calculated  to  promote  the  gen- 
eral welfare  and  it  will  consequently  receive  their  good 


312  PSYCHOLOGY. 

will  and  pfood  opinion.  Hence  whatever  is  of  this 
general  character,  whatever  is  generally  desirable,  will 
also  be  honorable,  and  bring  honor  to  him,  who  either 
has  or  acquires  it.  Some  honor  is  innate,  as  for  exam- 
ple that  of  being  man,  of  being  possessed  of  genius,  of 
talents  ;  other  honor  is  inherited,  as  for  example,  the 
honor  to  be  born  of  honest  parents,  or  descended  from 
an  old  and  honorable  family.     From  this  latter  honor, 

'  that  of  nobihty  arose,  which  was  confined  to  a  certain 
separate  rank,  but  which  is  now  passing  away,  as  civili- 
zation dispels  the  remaining  clouds  of  darkness.  The 
noble  ancestors  of  some  old  families,  had  served  their 
country  by  their  bravery,  and  the  generous  sacrifices, 
which  they  willingly  made  for  its  sake,  and  thus  had 
gained  the  good  opinion  of  their  contemporaries  in  a 
high  degree.  By  distinguishing  themselves,  above 
others,  by  lofty  deeds,  they  were  raised  above  them. 
Yet  what  belonged  exclusively  to  their  own  merit,  was 
appropriated  by  their  sons,  as  if  virtue  could  be  inherit- 

.  ed  like  a  piece  of  ground  or  like  property,  and  so  the 
most  degenerate  sons  frequently  enjoyed  that  of  which 
they  were  wholly  unworthy. 

Honor,  in  the  second  place,  may  be  gained  by  acquir- 
ing whatever  is  of  general  value  in  the  opinion  of  men. 
Here  then  a  man's  honor  depends  on  his  will  and  natural 
capacities.  The  means  by  which  it  is  to  be  acquired,  are 
skill  in  the  use  of  our  limbs,  especially  for  the  produc- 
tion of  such  works,  as  will  benefit  the  community. 
This  is  the  case  with  the  soldier,  who  knows  how  to 
manage  his  horse,  and  to  wield  his  sword.  The  honor 
of  the  soldier  differs  however  from  the  mere  reputa- 
tion of  the  juggler,  whose  skill  has  no  reference  to  the 
general  welfare.  Honor  may  be  acquired  by  skill  in 
realizing  useful  designs  and  purposes,  the  invention  of 
new  machines  or  tFie  construction  of  such  as  were 
already  known;  by  works  of  the  fine  arts  and  by 
science.  The  scientific  man  enjoys  a  more  lasting 
honor  than  the  artist,  though  the  latter  may  be  more 
honored  during  his  life.  Sciences  are  free  from  the 
peculiarities  of  a  national  spirit,  art  is  under  its  influ- 
ence.    The  Aphrodite  of  Apelles  and  the  Madonna  of 


"  PSYCHOLOGY.  3l3 

Raphael,  differ  more  than  the  logic  of  Aristotle  and  that 
of  VVhateley.  Among  the  scientific,  those  ag^ain  are 
most  highly  honored,  whose  sciences  are  most  closely 
related  to  practical  pursuits.  Honor  may  be  acquired 
by  every  occupation,  that  has  reference  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  our  wants.  Every  one,  who  while  lie  is  active 
for  himself  benefits  the  community  at  the  same  time,  re- 
ceives honor.  So  the  farmer' has  honor,  for  on  his  oc- 
cupation the  basis  of  the  whole  government  rests.  The 
mechanic  labors  indeed  for  himself,  but  if  he  is  skillful 
he  will  benefit  the  whole  community  in  which  he  lives, 
and  will  be  honored.  Honor  is  higher  in  proportion  as 
the  occupation  by  which  it  is  acquired,  has  less  the 
welfare  of  the  individual  than  that  of  the  whole  com- 
munity in  view.  The  honor  of  a  valuable  justice  of 
the  peace  is  j^reater  than  his,  who  lives  entirely  to  him- 
self; yet  the  justice  of  the  peace  may  labor  at  the  same 
time,  for  the  support  of  his  feimily  ;  he  may  be  a  carpen- 
ter, a  farmer,  or  a  merchant:  hence  the  honor  of  the 
minister  or  the  judge  is  still  sfieater,  for  they  devote 
themselves  wholly  to  the  welfare  of  the  public.  This 
external  honor  may  bs  indicated  by  orders  aiid  insio-nia; 
but  it  ceases  to  be  honor,  if  it  has  no  relation  at  all  to 
morality,  and  thus  becomes  mere  reputation. 

We  now  pass  over  to  the  consideration  of  internal 
honor. 

Internal  or  subjective  honor  is  the  idea  which  a  per- 
son has  of  himself,  of  his  qualities  or  character.  The 
person  is,  however,  free  to  seek  for  honor  in  any  thing 
he  possesses  or  is;  for  the  notion  of  honor  is  his  own 
creation  and  he  may  place  it  in  what  he  pleases.  It  is, 
therefore,  not  the  object,  which  is  honorable  in  itself, 
but  the  notion  of  the  subject,  on  which  honor  is  depend- 
ent. The  contents  of  honor  may  be  high  virtues,  such 
as  honesty^  faithfulness,  courage,  bravery,  the  exact 
fulfillment  of  duties :  these  are  honorable  in  themselves; 
but  with  reijard  to  subjective  honor,  they  become  so 
only,  when  the  person  raises  them  into  the  sphere  of 
honor  by  his  own  determination,  when  he  resolves  to 
seek  his  honor  in  them.  The  question  is  not  whether 
a  thing  is  honorable  in  itself,  but  whether  it  agrees  with 

40 


314  ^  PSYCQOLOGY. 

our  notions  of  honor.     Hence  a  man  of  honor,  in  this 
sense  of  the  word,  may  neglect  many  duties  and  still  re- 
main an  honorable  man  in  his  own  opinion,  and  again, 
he  will  often  perceive  obligations,  and  insist  on  their 
most  exact  fultillment,  when  others  can  see  none.     He 
creates  his  obligations  by  the  principles  of  his   own 
honor,  and  considers  it  a  point  of  honor  to  lead  them 
out.     It  is  this  kind  of  honor,  which  may  lose  all  trne 
substance  and  become  wholly  whimsical,  a  mere  form 
without  any  true  life.     In  this  case,  trifling  and  insig- 
nificant notions  are  frequently  brought  in  connection 
with  our  honor  ;  and  we  insist  on  having  them  regard- 
ed as  if  they  were  really  of  great  importance.     We  see 
then,  that  it  is  wholly  left  to  the  arbitrary  choice  of  a 
person  to  extend /«5  honor  as  far  and  over  as  many  of  his 
personal  qualities  as  he  pleases,  and  it  is  therefore  natural 
that  such  subjective  honor,  the  limits  of  which  it  must 
be  difficult  to  ascertain,  is  easily  wounded  ;  especially 
when  we  consider  that  honor  is  something  so  subjective 
and  that  the  notions  of  it  differ  so  widely,  that  no  gen- 
eral rule  can  be  given  as  to  what  is  offensive  or  not. 
What   leaves  one  cold,   rouses  another   into   passion. 
And  as  no  one  is  willing  to  have  his  honor  estimated 
by  another,  but  claims  the  right  to  be  his  own  judge  in 
such  matters,  every  one  will  when  offended  on  so  de- 
licate a  point,  himself  seek  for  satisfaction,  for  he  alone 
knows  how  much  or  little  is  required  to  make  a  suffi- 
cient reparation.     This  goes  so  far  that  unless  the  of- 
fender is  himself  a  man  of  honor  he  is  neither  able  to 
give  nor  take  away  the  honor  of  another;  hence  un- 
able either  to  offend  or  to  give  satisfaction.     For  sat- 
isfaction  consists  in  seeing  honor   acknowledged   by 
another,  but  if  he  does  not  appear  honorable  to  me  his 
opinion  cannot  be  of  any  value  to  me. 

But  neither  the  external  nor  internal  honor  is  the 
true  honor.  True  honor  can  only  be  acquired  by  vir- 
tue, by  moral  conduct,  by  a  correct  relation  to  the  di- 
vine law.  The  love  of  this  honor  is  the  root  of  many 
good  traits  in  the  character  of  man ;  itennobles,  and  with- 
out it,  it  must  be  difficult  to  fulfill  our  other  duties; 
since  this  honor  alone  can  gain  for  us  the  true  confi- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  '        3l5 

dence  of  our  fellow-men,  without  which  we  could  not  en- 
joy a  sphere  of  conscientious  activity.  This  honor  may 
be  acquired  by  every  one  ;  woman  by  chastity  and  her 
other  domestic  virtues;  man  by  what  he  does  and 
eifects  by  faithfuhiess  to  a  given  promise,  by  scorning 
undignified  actions,  by  works  of  art  and  of  science  : — all 
may  acquire  moral  honor  which  alone  can  render  any 
other  honor  valuable.  "Moral  honor  alone  is  permanent. 
"Like  a  hymn  it  is  always  attractive,  while  the  mere 
objective  or  subjective  honor  is  like  a  street  song,  which 
wearies  the  ears."  The  honor  of  Napoleon  and  that  of 
Washington,  differs  as  essentially  as  that  of  Robespeire 
and  Luther.  "Moral  hoLior  cannot  be  taken  from  us. 
Luther  was  striped  of  his  titles  by  the  council  of  Orla- 
muende  during  his  contest  with  Carlstadt,'but  he  never- 
theless remained  the  honorable  Martui  Luther.  A 
panegyric  on  Cromwell,  on  the  other  hand,  is  like  a 
false  coin,  it  will  not  become  current.  It  is  most  inju- 
rious to  him,  in  whose  mouth  or  hand  it  is  last  fouad." 

LOVE  OF  HONOR  AS  A.  PASSION. 

When  the  love  of  honor  becomes  a  passion,  it  is  either 
ambition,  and  thus  stands  connected  with  external  hon- 
or ;  or  it  is  pride  and  is  fourided  on  internal  honor. 
Ambition  is  the  vehement  and  blind  desire  for  the  good 
opinion  of  our  fellow-men  ;  this  desire  is  blind  and  ve- 
hement, because  honor  is  not  desired  on  its  own  ac- 
count, not  because  it  is  noble  and  good,  but  on  his  ac- 
count who  desires  it.  The  ambitious  constantly  thinks 
of  increasing  his  honor  and  hence  is  always  bent  upon 
something  future,  the  execution  of  which  seems  ardu- 
ous and  demands  power  and  strength  and  mind,  but  in 
all  he  does  he  has  his  own  reputation  in  view,  and  he 
could  do  anything,  right  or  wrong,  if  his  honor  would 
be  advanced  by  it.  The  truly  honorable  man  will 
everywhere  do  what  is  good  and  right,  and  so  he  is  de- 
termined to  avoid  what  is  dishonorable  in  itself.  The 
ambitious  man  only  asks  :  Will  it  bring  honor  in  the 
opinion  of  others  ?  for  this  opinion  alone  sanctions  in 
,bis  view  what  is  honorable,  and  without  it  there  is  no 


316  PSYCHOLOGY. 

honor.  He  longs  to  see  every  thins:  ficknowledged  that 
is  his,  while  the  truly  honorable  man  is  satisfied  with 
knowing  that  what  he  does  is  honorable  in  itself,  and 
that  he  is  worthy  of  honor.  He  will,  therefore,  perform 
what  is  honorable  and  not  look  for  applause.  External 
honor  has  its  expressions  in  society  ;  rank,  offices  of  dif- 
ferent kinds  &c.,. include  an  honor  in  themselves  which 
they  confer  on  any  one,  who  occupies  them  whether  he 
deserves  it  or  not.  Hence  the  ambitious  desires,  pro- 
minent positions  in  public  life,  he  will  not  strive  to  be 
at  the  head  of  afH^irs  ;  he  cannot  bear  to  have  any  one 
above  him,  and  would  rather  be  the  first  in  a  village 
than  second  in  Rome.  Ambition  leads  to  many  views. 
It  courts  public  opinion  and  consequently  must  yield  to 
it  and  become  unfaithful  to  its  own  principles,  if  it  has 
any.  It  will  distinguish  itself,  and  seeks  originality 
and  pretends  to  what  it  has  not.  It  leads  to  hatred  and 
especially  to  envj/,  for  it  cannot  avoid  drawing  compari- 
sons between  itself  and  others,  and  perceiving  that 
others  have  tli3  same  or  more  than  it  has,  and  at  the 
same  time  de.viring  to  have  the  sole  title  to  honor,  it 
enviously  asperses  the  qualities  of  others.  Envy  con- 
sists in  the  strange  opinion,  that  we  alone  ought  to 
have,  what  others  nevertheless  have  likewise^  that 
others  ought  not  to  make  any  pretensions  to  it,  because 
we  are  superior  to  them;  that  because  others  are  in 
ourwai/,  therefore  we  are  not  first  in  rank,  and  that 

nothing  is  wanting  to  our  elevation  but  their  removal.r 

It  will  be  generally  found  connected  with  ambition,  for 
the  ambitious  will  always  meet  his  equal,  and  this  he 
cannot  endure.  Envy  is  not  excited  by  the  dead.  By- 
ron did  not  envy  Shakspeare,  nor  Napoleon,  Alexan- 
der or  Cesar  ;  nascitur  m  vivis  livor,  post  fata  qnies-, 
ci/,— Envy  rages  among  the  living,  alter  death  it  dies 
away.  It  is  for  these  reasons  that  it  is  honorable  to  be 
called  a  man  of  honor,  but  despicable  to  be  charo-ed 
with  ambition.  Tiiough  an  ambitious  man  stands 
higher  in  public  opinion,  than  an  avaricious  one,  be- 
cause the  object  of  the  former  is  ideal  that  of  the  latter 
wholly  material. 

Prtd^f  as  was  stated,  is  founded  upon  internal  honor, 


PSYCHOLOGY.  317 

and  differs  consequently  from  ambition,  as  the  internal 
from  external  honor.  Ambition  endeavors  to  gain  the 
good  opinion  of  others  and  possess  it,  whether  right  or 
wronjr;  pride  is  satisfied  with  its  own.  It  does  not,  hke 
ambition,  yield  to  the  opinions  of  others  or  court  them, 
but  rather  expects  all  to  look  up  to  it.  Wiien  others  do 
not  feel  and  express  by  their  actions  this  subordination 
to  the  proud,  he  either  grows  cold  or  beconjes  distant. 
If  the  ambitious  desires  to  be  foremost  and  first  every 
where,  the  proud  will  demand  it  in  a  much  higher  de- 
gree, and  jealousy  will  be  more  incident  to  his  charac- 
ter, than  to  that  of  the  ambitious  ;  lor  nothing  but  the 
highest  of  all  can  satisfy  him.  The  ambitions  may  ac- 
knowledge some  weakness  and  frailty  in  his  character, 
but  the  proud  makes  the  higliest  pretensions  in  every 
respect,  does  not  acknowledge  every  frailty,  insists  on  un-' 
limited  admiration,  raises  himself  above  all  others,  and 
expects  them  to  be  humble  in  his  presence.  The  am- 
bitious is  constantly  in  search  of  honor,  the  proud  con- 
siders himself  in  possession  of  it,  and  would  not  be  wil- 
ling to  appear  to  be  seeking  for  it.  Pride  differs  from 
haughtiness.  The  haughty  man  expects  others  to 
consider  themselves  a  mere  nothing  in  liis  presence,  and 
to  feel  happy  if  he  calls  upon  them  for  their  services. 
"When  this  haughtiness  grows  still  more  excessive,  it  be- 
comes superciliousness,  which  desires  others  to  despise 
themselves,  when  they  perceive  its  splendor  and  great- 
ness. — We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  remark,  that 
passions  include  extremes,  that  they  are  living  contra^ 
dictio7is.  This  remark  may  agam  be  made  here.  For 
the  proud,  the  haughty,  the  supercilious,  while  they  ex- 
pect all  others  to  bow  before  them,  will  themselves  bow 
before  others  and  do  homage  if  the  occasion  requires  it. 
This  is  expressed  by  Tacitus,  in  his  forcible  manner  : 
Aliis  humiliter  inserviunt,  dum  aliis  crndeliter  super- 
biant, — They  serve  some  in  humility,  while  they  mako 
their  pride  felt  by  others.  Pride  may  be  divided  into  as 
many  classes,  as  there  are  objects  of  pride.  There  is  a 
pride  of  learning,  which  easily  passes  over  into  vanity  j 
there  is  a  pride  of  virtue,  which  is  thefruitof  self-right- 
eousness ;  there  is  a  pride  of  piety,  that  humbly  acknovv-t 


318 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


jedo;es  human  depravity,  while  at  he  same  time  it  thinks 
well  of  itself,  as  havinjj-  left  behind  the  mass  of  concep- 
tion ;  there  is  a  pride  of  nationality,  when  we  consider 
our  nation  superior  to  all  others  ;  there  is  finally,  a  pride 
of  genius,  originality,  money,  property,  a  pride  of  rank 
from  the  soldier  to  the  prince,  including  every  rank  and 
<;  condition  of  men.     One  kind  of  pride  we  must  mention 
\here,  as  arising  from  the  true  and  genuine  honor,  from 
I  that  honor  which  can  alone  be  acquired  by  virtue.    This 
/  pride  is  correct  and  moral,  and  is  felt,  when  any  one 
'  suggests  to  us  any  thing  base,  and  when  we  reject  such 
a  suggestion  with  scorn.     It  consists  in  our  own  con- 
viction that  our  honor  has  tzo  price,  that  it  cannot  be 
bribed  either  by  money  or  ftnything  else,  and  that  we 
cannot  be  induced  to  do  wilfully  anything  mean.      If, 
nevertheless,  any  one  approaches  us  with  sinister  inten- 
tions, we  feel  indignant  at  him. 

•  Finally,  it  is  necessary  to  distinguish  vanity  from 
pride.  By  vanity  we  do  not  understand  here  the  trans- 
itoriness  and  perishableness  of  all  things,  but  the  dis- 
position which  induces  man  to  place  a  high  value  upon 
every  thing  that  is  his,  and  because  it  is  his.  The  man 
is  vain  in  a  somewhat  different  respect,  that  expects  the 
finite  and  transitory  to  be  permanent,  and  seeing  him- 
^self  disappointed,  exclaims:  all  is  vain  !  while  in  fact 
his  imagination  alone  is  vain.  For  transitoriness  does 
not  make  things,  the  nature  of  which  it  is  to  be  finite,  vain. 
They  go  and  come  again.  Youth,  beauty  and  under- 
standing are  valuable,  and  not  vain,  though  youth  de- 
cays, beauty  fades,  and  understanding  loses  its  vis^or. 
But  why  should  we  not  enjoy  these  things,  though  they 
are  transitory  ?  Have  they  no  value  m  reteren-ce  to  our 
higher  duties?  Things  are  not  vain  because  they  are 
transitory,  but  lue  are  vain,  when  we  place  our  affec- 
tions upon  the  transitory,  and  expectit  to  remain  the  same 
for  ever.  We  transfer. our  own  vanity  nito  the  things 
of  the  world  and  pronounce  n)their  quality,  while  in 
fact  it  is  ours.  The  vanity  we  here  speak  of  is  the  de- 
sire for  the  immediate  notice  of  our  qualities,  and  an  ex- 
pression of  a  good  opinion.  It  is  a  modification  of  am- 
bition, and  it  enters  more  into  the  retail  sale  of  honor. 


PSYCHOLOGY.         ^  319 

It  is  therefore  little,  and  differs  by  this  bitterness  from 
pride.     It  either  places  particular  stress  on  things,  that 
must  be  wholly  indifferent  to  public  opinion,  as  for  in- 
stance, on  the  day  on  which  we  were  born,  on  dress  or 
personal  beauty,  or  on  such,  as  are  of  more  general 
value,  as  wit,  language,  skill.     The  latter  objects  may 
easily  lead  to  vanity  ;  for  as  they  please  the  person  who 
has  them,  so  they  are  attractive  to  all.     The  vain  per- 
son noticuig  their  general,  attractiveness  desires  that 
they  shall  please  others,  because  they  are  his^  and  so  his 
interest  in  any  object  is  not  immediately  derived  from 
the  object  itself,  but  from  the  impression  it  makes  upon 
others.  /  Hence,  the  vain  person  will  constantly  contrive 
to  have  an  object  that  impresses  others  favorably  seen 
by  them.     Perhaps  a  lady  is  vain  of  her  beautiful  hand, 
and  she  will  certainly  kiiow  how  to  exhibit  it  with  a  full 
appearance  of  modesty.     As  honor  is  a  high  good,  but 
is  abused  by  ambition,  so  are  beauty,  talent,  genius, 
much  to  be  desired ;  but  when  we  love  them,  not  be- 
cause we  consider  them  high   and  noble,  but  because 
they  are  ours — because   we  possess  them — when  we 
could  not  take  any  interest  in  them,  in  case  we  were  de- 
prived of  them,  then  our  love  of  them  is  vanity.     This 
vanity  is  closely  connected  with  the  one  before  described, 
and  the  only  difference  is  that  it  is  more  selfish.  It  is  right 
to  love  all  things  that  God  has  created,  but  it  is  wrong 
to  expect  of  them,  what  God  has  not  given  them ;  and 
so  it  is  right  to  love  our  personal  qualities  and  that 
which  belongs  to  us,  but  it  is  wrong  to  believe  them 
good,  because  they  are  connected  with  us.     Both  kinds 
of  vanity  may  pervade  the  spirit  of  whole  ages.     About 
the  middle  of  the  last  century,  a  melancholy  feeling,  of 
the  vanity  of  all   things,  spread  itself  over  the  world. 
Young's  Night  Thoughts,  Sterne's  Sentimental  Journey, 
and  Werther's  Sorrows,  induced  or  encouraged  that  si- 
lent consumption  of  mind  and  energy.     And  so  again 
whole  ages  may  be  diseased  with  vanity  as  a  modifica- . 
tion  of  ambition  ;  especially  such  as  are  without  a  de- 
termined character.     Much  depends  too  upon  the  char- 
acter of  individuals  and  nations.     The  English,  for  in- 
stance, are  inclined  to  pride,  the  French  to  vanity. 


320 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


The  inclinations  vvhiah  we  have  had  under  eonsider- 
ation  thus  far,  as  arising-  fron:i  the  relation  of  man  to 
his  fellow-men,  had  for  their  contents  objects,  that  could 
neither  understand  nor  answer  them.  These  inclina- 
tions rest,  therefore,  solely  in  him  who  has  them,  and 
cannot  be  reciprocated.  The  inclinations  we  now  have 
to  examine  are  divided  between  at  least  two  persons. 
They  are,  therefore,  mutual  inclinations,  and  social  in 
the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  and  the  first  among 
them  is 

LOVE. 

Love,  in  general,  is  the  devotion  of  one  person  to  ano- 
ther. In  it  we  surrender  the  independence  of  our  exist- 
ence, and  desire  to  become  self-conscious,  not  in  our- 
selves only,  but  especially  in  the  consciousness  of  ano- 
ther. In  him  we  seek  ourselves,  by  him  we  desire  to 
be  acknowledged  and  received  with  our  whole  person- 
ality and  all  connected  with  it.  His  consciousness  we 
desire  to  penetrate,  to  fill  with  our  person  all  his  will 
and  knowledge,  all  his  desires  and  wishes.  Then  the  ^ 
other  lives  only  in  us,  as  we  live  in  him.  Thus  both 
are  identical,  and  each  lays  his  whole  soul  into  this 
identity.  Love  is,  therefore,  ennobling  ;  for  loving  we 
do  not  belong  to  ourselves,  but  to  him  whom  we  love, 
as  he  belongs  to  us.  Thus  our  selfishness  is  broken  ; 
we  forget  ourselves  as  isolated  beings,  and  seek  and  find 
ourselves  only  in  each  other  ;  we  do  not  exist  and  live 
fpr  ourselves  alone,  but  at  the  same  time  for  him,  whom 
we  love,  and  principally  for  him ;  for  in  him  the  root 
of  our  joys  and  pleasures  rest,  in  him  we  possess  our- 
selves wholly,  out  of  him  the  world  is  dreary  and  dead 
to  us.  Whatever  cannot  be  drawn  within  this  circle  of 
our  love,  leaves  us  indifferent.  "  Especially  in  female 
characters  is  love  most  beautiful ;  for  with  them  this 
devotion,  this  surrender  is  the  highest  point,  as  they  cen- 
ter their  intellectual  and  real  life  upon  this  feeling  of 
love,  in  it  find  their  only  hold  on  life,  and  if  misfortune 
touches  it,  they  disappear  like  a  light  which  is  extin- 
guished by  the  first  rough  breath.     In  this  subjective 


HSYGHOLOGY.  321 

tenderness  of  feeling  love  is  not  found  in  the  classic 
art  of  Greece,  where  it  appears  only  as  a  subordinate 
element  for  representation,  or  only  in  reference  to  sens- 
ual enjoyments. 

In  Homer,  either  no  great  weight  is  placed  upon  it, 
or  love  appears  in  its  most  worthy  form,  as  marriage  in  the 
domestic  circle,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  person  of  Pene- 
lope, or  as  the  solicitude  of  a  wife  and  mother  in  An- 
dromache, or  in  other  moral  relations.  The  tie,  on  the 
Other  hand,  which  attaches  Paris  to  Helen,  is  acknow- 
ledged as  immoral,  and  is  the  cause  of  the  terrors  and 
misfortunes  of  the  Trojan  war,  while  the  love  of  Achil- 
les to  Briseis  has  little  depth  of  feeling,  for  Briseis  is  a 
slave,  and  at  the  disposal  of  his  will.  In  the  odes  of 
Sappho,  the  language  of  love  is  raised  to  lyric  inspira- 
tion, yet  it  is  more  the  lingering,  consuming  fire  of  the 
blood  that  is  expressed,  than  the  warmth  of  feeling  and 
the  emotions  of  the  heart.  In  another  respect,  love  as 
expressed  in  the  delightful  little  songs  of  Anacreon  is  a 
cheerful,  general  enjoyment,  which  without  suffering, 
without  struggles,  and  without  the  resignation  of  an  op- 
pressed and  longing  heart,  joyfully  seizes  the  immediate 
pleasure,  not  regarding  it  as  necessary  to  possess  this  6b- 
ject  of  affection  and  no  other.  Neither  does  the  noble 
Tragedy  of  the  ancients  know  the  inclination  of  love  in 
its  romantic  significance.  Especially  with  iEschylus and 
Sophocles  it  does  not  claim  any  particular  interest.  For 
though  Antigone  is  destined  to  be  the  wife  of  Hasmon, 
though  Haemon  defends  her  before  his  father,  and  even 
kills  himself  because  he  cannot  save  her — bespeaks  be- 
fore Creon  only  of  objective  relations,  and  not  of  the 
power  of  subjective  passion,  which  in  fact  he  did  not 
feel  in  the  sense  of  a  modern  passionate  lover.  Euri* 
pides  makes  use  of  love  as  an  essential  pathos  in  his 
Phedra,  yet  there  it  is  represented  as  a  criminal 
aberration  of  blood,  as  a  passion  of  sense,  as  instigat- 
ed by  Venus,  who  desires  the  destruction  of  Hippolytus, 
because  he  will  not  bring  sacrifices  to  her.  So  we  haA^e 
in  the  Venus  de  Medici  a  beautiful  image  of  love,  and 
n-othing  can  be  said  against  its  neatness  and  plastic  exe- 

41 


822  PSYCHOLOGY. 

cution,  but  the  expression  of  internal  warmth  and  life, 
as  modern  Art  demands  it,  is  wholly  wanting. 

The  same  is  the  case  in  tiie  Roman  poetry,  when  af- 
ter the  dissohuion  of  the  republic,  and  of  the  rigidity  of 
moral  life,  love  degenerated  more  or  less  into  sensual 
enjoyment.  Petrarch,  on  the  other  hand,  though  he 
wrote  his  sonnets  for  amusement  only,  gained  his  im- 
mortal reputation  by  the  fancies  of  his  love,  which  un- 
der the  warm  Italian  sky,  connected  itself  in  the  depths 
of  his  heart  with  religion.  Dante's  exaltation  also  pro- 
ceeded from  his  love  of  Beatrice  which  rendered 
sublime  m  him  became  a  religious  love,  while  his  bold- 
ness and  bravery  was  transformed  into  a  religious  intui- 
tion of  art,  in  which — what  no  one  else  would  venture 
— he  made  himself  the  judge  of  all  men,  and  consig^ned 
them  to  hell,  to  puriratory,  or  to  heaven.  As  a  contrast 
to  this  exaltation  Bocaccio  represents  love,  partly  in 
vehemence  as  a  passion,  partly  as  stripped  of  all  morali- 
ty, making  in  his  various  novels  the  morals  of  liis  age 
and  country  pass  in  review  before  our  eyes. 

In  iheGenna.nminnesong,  love  is  full  of  piety,  tender, 
without  richness  of  imagination,  playful,  melancholy, 
monotonous  ;  with  the  Spaniard,  it  is  full  of  imagina- 
tion in  its  expression,  knightly,  subtle  in  seeking  and 
defending  its  rights  and  duties  as  a  matter  of  honor,  and 
fanatical  in  the  time  of  its  highest  splendor.  With  the 
French,  especially  in  latter  times,  it  becomes  gallant, 
inclining  to  vanity,  a  forced  feeling  created  by  so- 
phistry, a  kind  of  sensual  enjoyment  without  passion, 
or  passion  without  enjoyment,  a  feeling  and  sentiment- 
ality full  of  reflection.  From  the  above  it  will  be  seen 
that  at  present  we  have  under  consideration 

SEXUAL  LOVE, 

This  is  founded  on  a  tendency  of  nature,  which;  di- 
vided between  two  of  different  sexes,  draws  them  irre- 
sistibly, yet  mysteriously  towards  each  other,  and  makes 
each  feel,  that  it  cannot  find  its  completion  in  itself,  and 
must  seek  for  it  in  another.  This  love  is  pure  and 
noble,  when  it  is  called  forth  by  love.     "  The  purest 


■PSYCHOLOGY.  323 

love  is  the  effect  of  the  most  perfect,  external  beauty  in 
its  union  with  an  equally  perfect  internal  beauty  of  the 
heart.  It  calls  forth  noble  and  delightful  feelings  in 
ourselves,  silences  every  desire,  and  renders  us  happy  by 
its  presence.  It  is  a  perfect  union  of  the  most  beautiful 
in  us  with  the  most  beautiful  out  of  us.  Its  removal 
leaves  a  void  in  the  heart  ;  we  are  drawn  after  it." 
This  is  the  case  with  all  lovers.  Every  one  considers 
his  love  the  fairest,  most  beautiful,  and  most  virtuous 
of  all  that  ever  lived.  If  personal  beauty  is  wanting, 
other  charms  will  compensate  for  it,  or  make  the  lover 
overlook  the  deficiency.  Sexual  love  is  the  bloom  of 
our  intellectual  and  bodily  life,  and  as  the  flower  reveals 
by  its  color  and  fragrance  the  life  of  the  plant,  so  love 
will  render  manifest  the  ideal  of  beauty  and  loveliness, 
and  the  kind  of  life  which  a  person  conceals  within  him- 
self Again  :  love  is  the  intellectual  and  physical  devel- 
opment of  youth,  for  it  is  the  joint  product  of  imagin- 
ation and  fancy,  and  of  bodily  vigor  and  freshness  of 
nerves  and  muscles,  all  of  which  have  arrived  at  the 
stage  of  maturity.  If  love  induces  us  to  seek  for  all 
that  is  noble  and  beautiful  in  order  to  adorn  with  it  the 
object  of  love  ;  if  we  desire  to  seek  for  honor  and  every 
virtue,  to  lay  it  at  the  feet  of  the  beloved  one  ;  if  we  long 
for  nothing  more  than  the  entire  union  of  soul  with  soul, 
—then  our  love  is  noble,  and  the  beingof  whom  itis  the 
blossom  must  be  so  likewise.  Such  love  excites  us  to  vir- 
tuous and  magnanimous  actions,  and  many  a  youth  of 
amiable  qualities,  but  who  was  exposed  to  dangers  has 
been  rescued  by  love  and  raised  by  it  into  the  sphere  of 
beauty  and  nobleness  from  that  of  sensual  enjoyments. 
In  sexual  love  now,  if  it  is  to  be  pure,  love  must  be  the 
only  object  desired,  not  money,  not  mere  external  beau- 
ty. Such  love  will  desire  its  preservation,  and  this  it 
can  obtain  only  by  a  permanent  union,  which  is  mar- 
riage. Marriage  is  the  external  representation  of  the 
internal  union,  produced  by  love  between  two  persons 
of  different  sexes,  and  sanctioned  by  the  usual  ceremo- 
ny. Husband  and  wife  are  truly  one.  The  interests 
and  wishes  of  the  one  are  also  those  of  the  other ;  they 
enter  so  wholly  and  entirely  into  each  other's  feelings, 


324  PSYCHOLOGY. 

views,  and  desires,  that  they  seem  to  have  but  one 
thinking  power.  Genuine  marriage  cannot,  therefore, 
be  produced  by  a  mere  ceremony,  but  must  have  its 
possible  existence  in  love.  Yet  what  is  once  joined  to- 
gether, let  no  man  put  asunder,  and  hence  the  choice  is 
short,  and  the  regret  is  longf. 

From  the  above  it  must  follow  that  true  love  renders 
Monogamy  indispensable,  and  that  Polyandry  or  Poli- 
gamy  are  wholly  unnatural.  We  can  exchange  our 
tSelf  but  once,  and  receive  but  one  tSelfin  exchange  for 
it.  And  here  is  the  point  too,  on  which  it  must  appear 
possible,  that  love  may  become  a  passion.  For,  as  we 
cannot  love  every  one,  but  must  naturally  be  limited  in 
our  choice,  the  idea  may  take  hold  of  our  mind  after  we 
think  we  have  found  the  person,  that  she  and  no  other 
in  the  world  is  the  one  whom  we  can  love.  Centering 
our  affections  upon  her,  it  seems  wholly  impossible  to 
us,  that  we  should  be  able  to  love  any  other.  If  now 
impediments  are  thrown  in  our  way,  if  we  fear  the  loss 
of  our  love,  and  know  that  no  reparation  can  be  made 
to  us,  our  love  will  be  changed  into  a  transient  or  per- 
manent passion* 

SEXUAL  LOVE  AS  A  PASSION,  . 

•  The  impediments  laid  in  the  way  of  love,  are  either 
external  or  they  are  contained  in  one  of  the  lovers,  and 
may  be  termed  internal.  The  external  impediments 
-proceed  from  the  world  around  us,  from  its  manners 
and  views,  from  the  family  spirit,  its  interests,  from  laws 
and  prejudices,  and  the  prose  of  life.  The  lovers  think 
of  nothing  but  their  love ;  they  are  satisfied  with  it. 
Yet  man  is  not  to  live  to  his  feelings  only,  he  has  duties 
to  perform,  and  to  honor  the  many  relations,  in  which  he 
finds  himself.  Thus  a  collision  between  his  love  and 
his  duties  may  easily  take  place.  Among  these  possible 
collisions  none  is  more  frequent  than  that  of  honor. 
This  may  demand  the  resignation  of  love,  merely  be- 
cause the  two  are  not  of  equal  rank.  This  opposition, 
however,  will  only  strengthen  the  power  of  love,  and 
ins|ead  of  yielding  to  the  suggestions  of  honor,  it  be- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  325 

comes  so  irresistible  as  rather  to. sacrifice  life  than  yield 
to  any  obstacles.  Again:  the  will  of  parents,  family 
duties,  duties  towards  the  country,  or  faithfulness  to  a 
vow,  may  interfere  with  love,  and  here  again  it  will  be- 
come passion.  Now  it  may  be  that  this  passion  over- 
comes all  difficulties,  and  effects  its  final  union,  or  that 
the  person  acknowledges  the  power  of  these  objective 
rights  and  duties,  and  struggles  silently  with  himself 
and  the  power  of  his  own  passions.  On  the  latter  pas- 
sion the  play  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  by  Schiller,  rests. 
Very  often,  as  we  have  said  already,  it  is  the  prose 
of  life — intrigue,  prejudices,  and  the  like,  that  op- 
pose love,  determined  to  destroy  the  fairest  prospects. 
In  this  case,  also,  love  becomes  a  passion  and  makes 
every  sacrifice  to  conquer  difficylties.  If  the  difficul- 
ties will  not  yield,  if  all  daily  grows  darker,  love  may 
be  driven  to  suicide,  or  terminate  in  insanity. 

The  internal  impediments  are  always  to  be  sought 
for  in  the  lovers  themselves.  Here  it  may  be,  that  love 
on  the  part  of  one  has  never  fully  developed  itself. 
When  now  the  other  demands  the  exclusive  possession 
of  the  love  of  the  first,  and  when  he  feels  that  this  is 
not  fully  given,  that,  perhaps,  a  third  receives  as  much 
attention  as  himself,  he  will  become  passionate,  and  his 
passion  will  hQ  jealousy.  When  love  is  pure  on  both 
sides,  all  fear  is  banished.  It  is  often  a  feeling  of  weak- 
ness, a  feeling  that  we  do  not  deserve  the  possession  of 
the  love  of  the  other,  that  causes  this  fear.  So  Othello 
is  certain  of  Desdemona's  love  ;  he  fears  nothing.  lago 
cannot  succeed  at  first  in  filling  his  heart  with  suspi- 
cion, until  he  mentions  his  age,  his  dark  color,  (fee. 
From  that  moment  suspicion  is  ripe  in  Othello's 
breast. 

Love  may  become  a  transient  passion,  when  the  great- 
ness of  the  new  feeling,  the  darkness  of  the  relations, 
that  are  yet  indistinct,  the  late  youthful  pride,  which  is 
now  to  surrender,  to  confess  itself  conquered,  embar- 
rass :  love  would  not  betray  itself,  and  betrays  itself 
by  this  very  wish  for  concealment.  It  desires  to  meet 
the  beloved,  and  trembles  or  flees  when  he  approaches. 
It  seeks  solitude  to  give  free  course  to  its  tears,  and 


326  PSYCHOLOGY. 

keeps  secret  from  others  what  moves  the  heart.  It  does 
not  venture  to  pronounce  the  name,  hut  it  finds  circuit- 
ous routs  to  hear  from  the  beloved  object. — So  love  may- 
become  a  transient  passion  in  a  moment,  when  after  we 
have  secretly  anticipated  a  kind  reception  from  tlie  per- 
son in  whom  we  are  interested,  we  receive  a  distinct 
and  marked  sign  of  it,  one  that  can  no  longer  be  misin- 
terpreted. 

The  passion  of  love  is  one  of  the  most  painful.  The 
object  appears  to  him  who  is  under  its  influence  as  the 
only  possible  one  he  could  choose;  a  certain  fatality,  a 
necessity  against  which  he  strives  in  vain,  chains  him 
to  this  one,  which  is  in  his  eyes  the  most  perfect.  With- 
out him  or  her  the  passionate  lover  does  not  expect  to 
enjoy  life  or  to  become  happy  in  any  way.  Hence  the 
most  bitter  feeling  of  an  irreparable  loss  constfiutly  agi- 
tates the  breast,  and  presents  nothino:  but  misery.  Love, 
as  was  alluded  to  above,  may  mitigate  and  even  expel 
other  passions,  but  when  once  a  passion,  it  cannot  itself  be 
rendered  less  strong  by  any  other  inclination.  It  is  too 
certain  of  its  loss,  it  feels  that  no  reparation  can  be 
made,  that  it  must  carry  its  grief  with  it  for  ever. 

After  these  remarks  on  love  as  a  passion,  we  shall 
now  approach  some  inclinations  which  spring  from 
sexual  love,  and  the  first  among  them  is 

PARENTAL  AND  FILIAL  LOVE. 

All  love  between  parents  and  children  commences  in 
the  love  of  the  mother  to  the  children  and  father.  The 
mother  in  loving  the  newly  born  child  loves  herself,  for 
its  life  is  hers.  She  nourishes  it  with  her  milk,  it  comes 
from  her  and  lives  through  her.  She  attends  to  it  be- 
cause she  loves  it.  The  child  grows  and  observes  ; 
its  wants  are  satisfied  by  the  mother,  from  whose  eyes 
love  and  sympathy  stream  into  its  own.  It  loves  the 
mother  and  this  love  remains  the  same  throughout  life. 
"  A  true  son  will  clmg  to  his  mother,  and  never  part 
with  her.  For  that  which  enters  most  deeply  into  the 
heart  of  man  and  his  whole  character  is  his  love  of  the 
mother,  wiio  loved  him  first.     Coriolanus  suffered  him- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  327 

self  to  be  conquered  only  by  bis  love  to  bis  motber,  and 
there  bas,  probably,  never  been  a  great  man  who  did 
not  speak  of  bis  mother,  when  she  was  alluded  to,  with 
the  most  heartfelt  love,  as  did  Frederick  I.,  Napoleon, 
&/C."  It  is  the  love  of  the  motber  to  the  child  that  calls 
forth  that  of  the  father  to  it ;  for  the  flitber  loves  it  be- 
cause he  loves  the  mother.  The  child,  on  the  other 
hand  seems  to  love  the  fitther  because  it  loves  the  moth- 
er, and  she  loves  the  father.  And  so  again  it  is  with 
the  love  of  the  children  to  each  other.  The  mother 
loves  all,  and  all  love  the  mother  ;  but  when  all  are  lov- 
ed by  the  mother  to  the  same  extent,  then  all  loving  the 
mother  will  love  what  she  loves,  and  consequently  love 
each  other.  This  family  love  will  be  ruined  when  one  of 
the  children  is  made  a  pet  by  the  mother,  as  in  that  case 
jealousy  and  envy  will  be  jjenerated.  When  all  is  right 
the  love  of  the  mother  will  be  the  center  of  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  family  ;  all  will  incline  towards  her  and 
a^ain  spread  from  her,  but  like  the  branches  of  a  well- 
proportioned  tree,  that,  while  they  each  turn  away  from 
the  trunk,  only  do  so  to  form  a  more  beautiful  and  per- 
fect crown.  One  needs  only  to  ^.vatch  a  little  family  to 
perceive  the  correctness  of  tlie  alx)ve  remarks.  Child- 
ren will  constantly  quarrel  with  each  other,  but  the 
mother  reitrns  among  them,  commands  peace,  reconciles, 
quiets,  and  silences  them,  and  makes  them  love  and  in- 
dulge each  other.  Tims  it  may  be  truly  said  that  all 
the  moral  relations  in  the  family  and  government,  have 
their  strong  hold  in  the  love  of  the  mother,  and  that  she 
'  is  the  basis  on  which  the  whole  fabric  rests. 

'  FRATERNAL  LOVE. 

This  is  the  love  between  sisters  and  brothers,  and  its 
character  is  of  the  brightest  purity.  There  are,  how- 
ever, some  differences  in  it,  for  it  is  either  love  between 
two  sisters  or  two  brothers,  or  it  is  love  between  sister 
and  brother.  As  love  between  two  sisters  or  between 
two  brothers,  it  is  not  so  fine  and  strong  ;  for  one  sister 
is  what  the  other  is,  and  one  brother  what  the  other  ; 
the  attraction  is  not  so  irresistible,  and  if  a  desire  should 


328  PSYCHOLOGY. 

arise  in  both  for  one  and  the  same  object,  as  is  often  the 
case  in  the  division  of  property,  or  it,  for  instance,  two 
brothers  should  fall  in  love  with  the  same  lady,  as  was 
the  case  in  Schiller's  celebrated  Bride  of  Messina,  the 
fraternal  love  might  easily  turn  into  hatred.  There  are 
other  causes  from  which  hatred  may  arise  between  broth- 
ers. The  relation  of  the  members  of  a  family  to  each 
other  is  not  one  resting  immediately  on  duties  and  rights 
like  that  ofcitizens  to  each  other.  One  brother  may,  there- 
fore, make  demands  on  the  other  as  if  he  had  really  a 
risfht  to  them.  If  the  other  declines  fulfilling  these  de- 
mands, he  may  charge  him  with  want  of  love.  This 
miofht  occur  when  the  one  of  two  brothers  is  a  spend- 
thrift, and  the  other  a  prudent  man.  No  hatred  can  be 
more  hitter  or  more  terrible  than  that  between  two  sisters 
or  two  brothers  ;  and  the  reason  is  that  when  they  love 
each  other,  it  is  in  the  purest  and  warmest  manner  ;  that 
durino^  the  time  of  their  love  neither  has  a  secret  from  the 
other,  neither  thinks  of  concealing  his  frailties  and  weak- 
nesses, as  one  stranger  would  from  another  ;  hence 
when  they  hate  each  other,  each  feels  himself  betrayed 
and  consequently  fraternal  hatred  is  more  bitter  than 
any  other,  unless  principles  of  honor  and  morality  re- 
strain it.  The  warmer  the  love,  the  more  intense  the 
hatred  ;  this  is  a  general  law.  There  can  be  no  purer 
love,  on  the  other  hand,  than  that  between  the  brother 
and  sister.  For  the  sister  loves  the  brother,  as  she 
cannot  love  any  one  else.  She  cannot  love  mother  or 
father  as  she  may  love  her  brother,  for  the  difference  cf 
age,  and  the  dependence  upon  them,  makes  her  feel  un- 
der some  restraint ;  the  same  is  the  case  with  her  love 
to  aunt  and  uncle.  Her  love  to  her  husband,  however 
pure  it  may  be,  is  already  more  selfish.  But  her  love  to 
her  brother  is  free  from  all  selfish  emotions,  is  perfectly 
pure.  This  love  was  called  by  the  Greeks  a  divine  love, 
resting  upon  a  divine  law,  and  when  in  Sophocles  it 
comes  in  contact  with  the  human  statute  of  Creon,  An- 
tigone fulfills  the  former,  violating  the  latter.  In  modern 
times  we  are  much  inclined  to  seek  for  its  ground  mere  ; 
ly  in  the  blood.  But  love  does  not  cling  to  the  blood- 
it  rests  in  spirit,  and  family  love  has  its  ground  in  fami- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  .  329 

ly  spirit.  In  this  spirit  all  incline  to  each  other,  and  to 
their  common  trunk ;  all  are  constrained  by  it  to  love 
each  other,  and  hence,  every  family  forms  a  whole,  that 
excludes  every  one  not  belonging  to  it,  not  pervaded  by 
that  spirit  which  produces  a  resemblance  of  feeling  and 
views,  of  desires  and  inclinations  in  all  the  members  of 
the  same  family.  It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  among 
the  members  of  a  family,  grandparents  and  grandchild- 
ren feel  more  attraction  for  each  other,  than  children 
and  parents.  To  what  is  this  owing?  The  parents 
standing  between  grandparents^  and  graridchildren,  as 
the  present  between  the  future  and  the  past,  are  full  of 
vigor,  strength,  and  insist  on  the  execution  of  their 
plans,  on  discrpline,  &c.  The  grandparents  are,  on  the 
other  hand,  losing  their  vigor,  the  root  of  their  existence 
is  in  the  past,  they  better  remember  early  impressions, 
those  of  their  childhood,  than  those  they  received  in 
more  advanced  age.  They  can,  therefore,  enter  more 
easily  into  the  feelings  and  life  of  children,  than  parents. 
Children  receiving  more  indulgence  from  them,^  will,  of 
course,  incline  more  strongly  to  them. 

But  if  each  family  is  a  whole  that  does  not  admit  any- 
thing from  without,  then  selfishnessmust  be  its  Character^ 
and  all  mtercourse  between  the  niembers  of  different 
ffimilies  must  be  rendered  impossible.  The  question  is  : 
How  may  thi-";  selfishness  be  broken  ?  In  two  ways  : 
First,  by  intermarriage,  and  secondly,  by  th 
mon  love  of  all  citizens  to  their  native  cour 

NATIONAL  LOVE. 

The  love  of  all  families  to  each  other  is,' 
effected  by  the  love  of  their  different  mem 
other.  The  love  between  son  and  daughter,  as  l5rTt*e 
and  bridegroom,  will  unite  two  families  ;  and  their  chil- 
dren again  will  unite  others,  until  all  the  families  of  a 
nation  grow  together  by  sexual  love,  and  form  one  great 
whole.  If  the  love  of  the  mother  to  her  children  and  theirs 
to  her,  may  be  compared  to  a  tree,  the  branches  of  which, 
while  they  spread,  bend  nevertheless  back  to  the  com- 
mon trunk  ]  the  love  of  one  family  to  another  may  also  be 
.43 


330  PSYCHOLOGY. 

compared  to  a  tree  the  full  grown  branches  of  which  sink 
themselves  into  the  soil,  send  forth  roots  and  form  new 
trees,  remaining  nevertheless  connected  with  the  par- 
ent-tree. The  thus  connected  families  again  form  a 
whole,  and  this  is  the  nation, — nanciscor.  And  here, 
secondly,  jiational  love  develops  itself  All  the  cit- 
izens of  a  nation  have  the  same  objects  of  aifection,  one 
country,  one  language,  one  manner  of  thinking,  the 
same  customs  and  morals.  Every  one  that  loves  them 
will  love  those  who  agree  with  him  in  their  inclinations. 
Hence  it  is  that  when  two  citizens  of  the  same  country, 
who  while  at  home  took  no  notice  of  each  other,  meet 
in  a  distant  foreign  land,  they  will  form  an  imme- 
diate acquaintance.  Hence  too,  we  delight  to  hear 
our  native  tongue  again  after  we  have  for  a  long  time 
spoken  the  language  of  other  nations.  But  the  country 
also,  its  soil,  its  valleys  and  mountains,  its  rivers  and 
streams^,  its  productions,  its  skies,  its  villages,  towns  and 
cities,  its  public  roads  and  canals,  and  in  short  all  be- 
longing to  it  become  the  objects  of  our  love,  and  this  love 
is  that  to  the  Fatherland.  "Yet I  know  nothing  more 
sweet  than  home,"  says  Homer.  The  love  for  the  Fa- 
therland was  stronger  in  ancient  times  than  in  modern. 
The  Christian  religiouihas  taught  us  to  consider  every 
stranger  as  a  friend  and  brother,  and  civilization  has 
rendered  rnanners  and  customs  more  similar  to  each 
other  among  all  nations. 

•  LOVE  OF  MANKIND. 

As  every  family  is  at  first  exclusive,  so  every  nation 
again  forms  a  whole,  kept  together  by  a  national  spirit, 
and  thrusting  out  whatever  does  not  proceed  from  it. 
Thus  our  nation  stands  opposed  to  another,  and  all  are 
enemies  to  each  other.  This  is  proved  by  history  ;  for 
all  intercourse  among  nations  commenced  in  wars 
rather  than  in  mutual  love.  Each  nation,  as  a  whole,  is 
selfish  ;  considers  its  own  productions  in  art  and 
science,  its  heroes  and  victories,  its  laws  and  institu- 
tions superior  to  those  of  other  nations  and  expects  them 
to  be  acknowledged  thus,  and  as  the  same  pretensions 


PSYCHOLOGY.  331 

are  made  by  each  nation,  and  none  is  willing  to  do 
what  the  other  demands, — all  will  feel  opposed  to  each 
other.  How  is  this  general  dislike  to  be  removed?  It 
miofht  at  first  sight  seem  that  commercial  intercourse 
and  general  cultivation  would  effect  this,  but  when 
more  closely  examined,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
snch  intercourse  rests  on  national  selfishness  and  close 
arithmetical  calculation,  and  that  it  may  for  this  reason 
often  lead  to  ruptures,  from  which  the  most  bitter  ha- 
tred and  wars  may  proceed.  Science  and  art  on  the 
other  hand,  as  loui:^  as  national  prejudices  exist,  cannot 
penetrate  all  nations  in  a  perfectly  free  form,  and  iheir 
power  is  consequently  limited  to  a  national  form,  and  in 
it  they  become  a  matter  of  national  pride,  and  conse- 
quently an  object  of  national  jealousy  and  quarrel.  The 
only  power  left  to  remove  national  enmity  and  produce 
peace  among  all  nations  is  the  christian  religion,  which 
teaches  us,  to  "  love  all  menP  We  cannot  love  the  whole 
race  as  a  mass,  but  we  may  love  every  one  whom  we  meet 
with,  and  take  an  interest  in  every  nation  and  tribe  of 
mankind  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  This  is  the  spirit  of 
Christ  and  of  missions ;  this  ought  to  be  the  spirit  of 
every  man.  The  general  possibility  of  loving  all  Vnen 
becomes  a  duty^  and  this  duty  is  the  crown  of  all  path- 
ological inclinations.  It  commences  with  sexual  love; 
it  passes  over  to  connubial  love  and  refines  itself  still 
more  in  the  paternal  and  filial  love,  in  fraternal,  family, 
and  national  love,  until  it  appears  in  its  highest  beauty, 
in  the  love  to  all  men.  As  the  model  of  this  love  we  have 
Christ,  who  persecuted  by  all,  by  the  Jews,  and  Romans, 
and  Greeks,  surrounded  by  malice,  voluptuousness, 
faithlessness,  standing  alone  in  the  midst  of  enemies, 
loved  allj  and  hated  none.  . 

REMARKS.  ' 

1.  It  is  usual  to  considier  friendships^  an  inclination, 
a  view  thafis  wholly  erroneous.  It  is  not  founded  on  the 
relations  of  our  organ  ism,!  but  rests  on  the  affinity  of 
two  souls,  on  the  perception  of  an  internal  quality,  and 
its  pillars  are  unlimited  confidence^  and  as  unlimited 


332  PSYCHOLOGY* 

faithfulness.  Friendship  is  therefore  a  virtue^  and 
though  it  may  commence  in  an  inclination,  and  may 
include  love,  it  ^oes  far  beyond  it.  Frankness  and 
opeiiness,  communication  and  participation,  are  indis- 
pensable to  it.  The  beautiful  poem  of  Schiller,  entitled 
Die  Buergshaft,  represents  the  nature  of  friendship  in 
a  masterly  and  a  most  impressive  manner.  Friendship 
is  impossible  without  mutual  regard,  but  we  rnay  love 
without  it ;  we  may  say,  "  1  love  thee,  but  I  cannot  res- 
<(  pect  thee  !"  friendship  rests  on  a  moral  respect  for  each 
other ;  on  principles  and  needs  no  love,  though  it  may 
,  have  it.  • 

2.  Family  love  and  national  love  qiay  easily  pass 
over  into  passions.  The  former  may  then  be  called 
Nepotism.  This  passion  makes  us  prefer  whatever  is 
connected  with  our  families  to  anything  that  proceeds 
from  other  families.  It  is  a  family  pride  that  is  ready 
at  all  times  to  defend  the  meanest  actions  of  its  relatives, 
to  praise  beyond  measure  what  is  good  in  them,  and  if 
power  and  influence  allow,  to  raise  them  to  rank  and 
positions  of  honor,  whether  they  deserve  it  or  not. 
'Nepotism  will  not  benefit  but  ruin  a  government ;  it  is 
-  Despotism. on  a  small  scale,  and  will  become  one  on  the 
largest  if  permitted  to  take  its  own  course.  So  nation- 
al love  may  become  a  passion,  but  always  in  the  form 
of  a  disinclination.  Two  nations  dislike  each  other; 
they  have  the  same  common  object  in  view  ;  only  one 
of  them  can  obtain  it,  and  hence  this  collision  arouses 
their  dislike,  and  converts  it  into  a  passion,  which  has 
for  its  desire  mutual  destruction.  Such  a  passion  may 
more  easily  originate  between  two  particular  nations 
than  between  others.  The  French  and  English 
dislike  each  other;  the  Germans  and  English  love 
each  other.  It  will  be  more  difficult  for  the  latter  than 
the  former  to  become  arrayed  against  each  other. 

3.  A  nation  is  an  organized  body  ;  it  has  therefore 
different  ranks,  as  it  has  different  aictivities.  Members 
of  different  ranks  may  dislike  each  other,  and  this 
dislike  may  break  forth  into  passion  in  times  of  revolu- 
tion. This  dislike  may  seem  very  insignificant  at  its 
commencement  and  continue  so  for  a  long  time.     It  then 


PSYCHOLOGY.  333 

is    a  mere  indifference  of  the  persons  to  each    other. 
One  man  discovers  an  inclination  in  another  which  he 
has  not ;  he  is  therefore  wholly  indifferent  to  it.     The 
other  notices  this  indifference  and  feels  chagrined. — A 
merchant,  for  instance,  loves   money  ;  to  acquire  it  de^ 
mands  a  certain  amount  and   a  certain  kind  of  know- 
ledo^e.     The  learned  man  on  the  otherhand,  inclines  to 
knowledge  for  its  own    sake,  and  he  will  feel  as  indif- 
ferent to  the  money  of  the  merchant,  as  the  merchant 
to  what  he  thinks  useless  knowledge.     If  they  become 
acquainted  with  each  other,  they  will  at  first  leave  each 
other  cold,  and  by  degrees  dislike  each  other.     This  dis- 
like will  express  itself  thus :  they  either  avoid   each 
other,  or  when  brought  together  are  polite,  while  each  is 
aware  of  the  dislike  of  the  other.^Such   a  dislike  for 
a  long  time  existed  between  Cuvier  and  Geoffrey  St. 
Hilaire,  both  of  whom  labored  in  the  same  sciences,  and 
in  the  same  institution,  but  carried  out  different  views. 
This  dislike  may,  however,  increase  till  it  becomes  ha- 
tred, which  desires  the  destruction  of  the  object  hated,  and 
ends  in  open  hostility.     F^or  these  are  the  three  degrees 
of  all  disinclinations  :     First ^  Dislike^  which  is  a  mej-e 
indifference  and  desire  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  him, 
whom  we  dislike.     Secondly,  Hatred,  or  a  desire  to  in- 
jure him  whom  we  hate.     And  thirdly,  Enmity,  or  a'de- 
terminationto  hurt,  destroy,  and  injure  him  whose  enemy 
we  are.     This  dislike  takes  place   principally,  as  was 
said,  between  persons  of  different  ranks  and  occupations, 
as  between  the  nobility  of  a  country   and  the  farming 
class,   between    philosophers   and   cler<rymen;    but    it 
takes  place  also  between  members  of  the  same  profes- 
sion, between  lawyers  or  physicians.      So  Plato  and 
Xenophon  are  said  to  have  secretly  disliked  each  other, 
yet  this  has  never  been  fully,  ascertained.     Party  ha- 
tred is  likewise  found  among  the  members  of  a  nation, 
The  cause  is  the  partial  inclination  of  some  to  a  com^ 
mon  object,  to  common  principles  and  their  prominent 
representatives.      This    inclination   will    attract   those 
that  cherish  it  to  each  other,  and  unite  them  in  propor- 
tion, as  it  separates  them  from  all  those  that  have  it  not, 
and  have  perhaps  a  similar  arid  equally  strong  predi-. 


334  PSYCHOLOGY. 

lection  of  other  objects  and  principles.  It  is  not  love 
to  each  other  that  unites  tho  members  of  a  party,  but 
love  to  the  same  inclination,  harinouy  of  views  and 
feelings,  of  desires  and  etforts.  The  separation  of  the 
different  parties  includes  indifference  ;  this  indifference 
may  become  hatred^  and  in  limes  of  revolution  enmity, 
as  that  between  Loyalists  and  Democrats.  As  these 
parties  in  the  government  may  rage  against  each  other, 
so  the  different  sects  in  religion.  The  Catholic  hates 
the  Protestant;  the  Jew  the  Christian;  the  Turk  the 
Persian, — And  among  the  Protestants  again,  there  was 
a  time,  when  Lutherans  and  the  Reformed  hated  and 
persecuted  each  other. 

4.  All  disinclinations  have  the  same  conditions,  that 
positive  inclinations  pre-suppose  for  their  origin.  They 
are  the  dislike  on  tfie  part  of  one  to  somethinor  on  that 
of  the  other ;  as,  for  instance,  the  dislike  of  one  to  the 
slow  tedious  manner  of  speaking  of  the  other. .  The 
other  perceives  this  dislike  and  dislikes  it.  The  former 
now  will  dislike  in  addition  to  the  slow  speaking  this 
dislike  of  the  other,  and  both  will  at  first  be  cool  in  their 
intercourse,  but  soon  hate  and  become  hostile  to  each 
other. 


3^3 


r 


CHAPTER  m. 


EMOTIONS. 


"  Emotions  act  like  water,  that  breaks  away  the  dam  ; 
passions  like  a  stream,  that  ditrs  its  bed  constantly  deep- 
er. Emotions  affect  the  health  like  apoplexy;  passions 
like  consumption.  Emotions  are  like  intoxication  that 
passes  over  in  sleep,  but  leaves  its  traces  in  the  head- 
ache that  follows;  passion  is  like  a  disease  arismo:  from 
swallowed  poison,  and  it  needs  a  physician  of  the  soul, 
who  after  all  cannot  prescribe  radical,  but  only  pallia- 
tive medicine."  Emotions  have  been  divided  into  two 
classes,  the  one  of  which  comprises  those  that  are 
strengthenings  as  cheerfulness,  joy,  hope  ;  and  the 
other,  those  that  are  weakenings  as  tear,  anxiety,  ^rief. 
This  division,  as  will  be  seen,  is  taken  from  the  effects 
which  emotions  have  upon  us,  and  though  correct  in 
this  respect,  it  is  not  founded  on  emotions,  as  they  are  in 
themselves.  Anotherdivision,  founded  wholly  upon  tiie 
nature  of  emotions,  has  therefore  been  adopted,  which 
we  shall  follow  in  its  whole  arrangement  without  at- 
tempting to  make  any  essential  changes.  According  to 
this  view,  emotions  are  either  simple^  mixedj  or  com- 
pound. 

SIMPLE  EMOTIONS,     -^ 

They  are  pleasiire  and  pain  ;  both  as  emotions  are 
feelings  connected  with  a  thought,, and  differ  thus  from 
mere  bodily  pleasure  and  pain.  They  neither  of  them 
require  any  otlier  emotion  or  feeling  for  their  existence 
except  that  of  agreeableness  or  disagreeableness.     This 


336  PSYCHOLOaY. 

may  be  connected  with  a  perception  or  sensation  ;  but 
here  it  is  the  feeling",  that  attciches  itself  to  the /t^zoi^- 
ledge  of  an  object.  They  are  called  sifnple  or  pure 
emotions,  because  they  are  the  same,  whatever  may  be 
the  object  in  the  knowledge  of  which  they  origmate, 
not  depending  as  a  condition  on  an  additional  feehng, 
neither  in  their  energy  nor  in  their  duration.  He  that 
for  the  first  time  enjoys  the  view  of  a  beautiful  landscape^ 
will  experience  the.  emotion  of  pleasure  in  which  all 
desires  are  silenced.  This  pleasure  arises  from  the 
agreeable  feeling,  accompanying  the  examination  of  the 
landscape.  It  is  simple  and  pure,  though  the  scenery^ 
is  variegated  and  our  reflections  on  it  are  manifhld.  Wie 
rejoice  in  nature  and  are  satisfied  with  this  pleasure,  as 
long  as  It  continues,  desiring  nothing  for  the  time  be- 
ing. Or  a  friend  unexpectedly  visits  us  ;  our  pleasure 
is  so  great,  that  at  first  we  do  not  think  of  asking  bira 
how  long  he  will  stay  with  us. — So  the  emotion  of  pain 
is  simple  and  pure,  not  a  bodily  or  sensual  pain,  but  like 
pleasure,  a  feehng,  arising  from  our  knowledge  of  an 
object  and  always  the  same,  though  the  objects  of  our 
knowledige  may  be  different.  Like  the  emotion  of  pleas- 
ure, it  exists  Independent  of  the  organs  of  sense,  sensual 
pain  and  pleasure  always  demand  organs,  tbe  physical 
ability  of  which  is  either  raised  or  depressed  by  some 
external  influence  upon  them.  Their  energy  and  du- 
ration dilfer,  their  nature  is  the  same.  There  is  aU'emo- 
tion  of  pain  "  that  thrusts  its  long  proboscis  into  the 
heart  and  draws  forth  tears  in  streams.  The  whole 
heart  swells  and  flows,  and  convulsively  compresses  its 
inmost  fibers."^  Such  pain  dissolves  itself  in  tears,  it  is 
an  infinite  feeling,  but  pure  and  simple.  In  it  the  suf- 
ferer does  not  feel  or  desire  to  injure  or  remove  the  ob- 
ject by  which  the  pain  is  caused. — The  purity  of  the 
emotions  of  pain  and  pleasure,  expresses  itself  too,  by 
their  relation  to  the  present.  The  object  which  they 
concern  may  be  in  the  past,  the  emotion  rests  wholly  and 
entirely  in  the  present.  Thus  these  emotions  are  con- 
tained wholly  in  themselves,  need  nothing  else  for  their 
existence,  and  are  therefore  both  simple  and  pure. 


PSYCHOLOGY.  -  3Ut 


MIXED  EMOTIONS. 


Here,  also,  we  have  but  two,  fear  and  ho-pe  ;  and  if 
pain  and  pleasure  had  only  reference  to  the  present, 
these  refer  to  the  future.  They  are  called  mixed,  be- 
cause they  cannot  originate  without  the  former  two,  but 
pre-suppose  them  for  their  existence.  Again  :  fear  and 
hope  having  reference  to  the  future,  are  impossible 
without  the  idea  of  time,  and  demand,  therefore,  much 
reflection.  Hence  they  are  of  a  higher  character,  than 
^pleasure  and  pain.  The  thought  of  the  future  draws 
out  the  soul  of  man  and  renders  him  great,  that  of  the 
immediate  present,  contracts  his  mind.  Jean  Paul  is 
therefore  right  in  saying  :  "  Neither  pleasure  nor  pain, 
but  only  hope  can  give  us  rest." 

HOPE. 

Hope  is  a  pleasure  in  the  present,  strengthened  by  the 
expectation  of  pleasure  in  the  future,  or  it  is  a  pleasure 
connected  with  the  anticipation  of  some  future  occur- 
rence that  will  be  agreeable  to  us.  Its  element  is  pleas- 
ure, but  pleasure  on  the  one  hand  as  felt  in  the  present, 
and  pleasure  on  the  other  as  anticipated  in  the  future. 
This  two-fold  reference  of  hope  to  the  present  and  fu- 
ture, gives  it  a  mixed  nature.  Every  thing  future  is 
only  possible  ;  the  degree  of  the  probability  of  an  occur- 
rence will  condifrion  the  energy  of  hope.  The  beggar 
who  hopes  to  become  a  king,  is  insane ;  the  impedi- 
ments that  may  seem  to  be  in  the  way  of  a  future  good 
must  be  such  as  can  be  surmounted,  and  there  must  be 
a  high  degree  of  probability  that  this  will  give  away,  or 
there  can  be  no  hope.  So  when  we  perceive  all  imped- 
iments yielding  to  the  approach  of  the  hoped  for  good,- 
our  hope  will  become  confidence.  Hope,  as  the  expecta- 
tation  of  something  future,  is  indispensable  to  enterprise 
and  activity.  The  farmer  sows  his  seed,  hoping  that 
it  will  germinate  and  grow,  the  sailor  leaves  his  native 
shore,  hoping  he  shall  see  it  again  laden  with  wealth  ;■ 
hope  of  victory  accompanies  the  soldier  in  war,  and 
hope  that  the  seeds  of  truth  will  find  their  appropriatsf 

43 


338  PSYCHOLOOY. 

soil,  and  bring  forth  frnit,  if  not  now,  after  his  death  j . 
encourages  the  teacher  to  persevere  in  his  arduous  work. 
Who  would  he  eager  to  endeavor  and  act,  to  advance 
and  improve  himself  and  all  around  him,  were  not  hope 

m  playing  in  his  bosom  7  Every  person,  from  the  ciiild  to 
the  aged,  hopes  ;  but  as  imagination  and  understand- 
ing, are  more  or  less  developed  or  naturally  more  or  less 
energetic,  hope  will  correspond  with  them.  The  hope 
of  the  child  is  but  an  uncertain,  dark  and  confused  an- 

^  ticipation,  or  a  wish  ;  the  hope  of  the  youth  needs  little 
-probability  ;  imacfination  loves  to  calculate  on  the  fa- 
vor of  fortune.  The  hope  of  manhood  is  of  a  general 
character  ;  its  objects  are  better  times  and  the  benefit  of 
posterity  ;  it  rests  on  cool  understanding,  and  a  know- 
ledge of  the  present  and  its  elements,  and  is  firm,  strong 
and  persevering,  even  when  surrounded  by  misfortunes 
or  preyed  upon  by  disease.  The  old  man,  submissive 
and  resigned,  continues  to  hope  though  near  the  grave, 
but  his  hope  is  directed  to  another  wofld,  and  if  of  any 
value,  it  must  rest  on  faith. 

One  who  has  been  frequently  disappointed,  will  find 
it  difficult  to  hope  ;  yet  no  one  is  entirely  without  hope. 
When  all  hope  disappears,  despair  takes  its  place.  Des- 
pair is  that  situation  of  mind,  in  which  fear  and  grief  no 
longer  give  room  to  hope,  in  which  sadness  consumes 
every  joy,  and  neither  present  nor  future  good  can  find 
any  access  to  us.  A  willing  resignation  of  the  world 
differs  from  despair ;  such  a  resignation  is  blessed  with 
internal  peace  and  rest,  and  \<^hile  it  hopes  nothing  for 
itself,  it  may  hope  for  others.  Resignation  is  the  result 
of  character,  of  principle,  of  views  which  we  have  form- 
ed of  life  and  the  value  of  its  enjoyments  ;  it  is  a  princi- 
pled limitation  of  our  wishes  and  desires. 

'        '  FEAR. 

This  is  the  opposite  of  hope  ;  a  feeling  of  strong  dis- 
pleasure connecting  itself  with  the  thought  of  a  future 
evil  or  of  an  unpleasant  occurrence,  that  in  all  proba- 
bility will  take  place.  The  future  evil,  the  occurrence 
of  which  is  not  very  probable,  cannot  alarm  us.     We 


PSYCHOLOQY.  ,  330 

all  believe  that  there  will  be  a  time,  when  the  eaVth 
shall  be  no  more,  but  every  one  of  us  expect  to  be  gone 
before  it  arrives.  Hence  we  do  not  fear  it.  No  one  is 
ashamed  of  hope,  but  many  dislike  to  have  it  known 
that  they  can  fear,  and  yet  fear  is  older  and  more  pow- 
erful than  hope.  It  is  natural  to  man,  for  dependent  as 
he  is  on  powers  that  are  not  under  his  control,  it  would 
be  foolish  to  pretend  to  be  above  fear. — Fear  has  its 
different  degrees,  and  much  may  depend  on  nge,  expe- 
rience, constitution,  and  temperament  to  which  of  these 
degrees  we  are  principally  subject.  These  degrees  are : 
First :  A  mere  feeling  of  uneasiness^  when  we  have  to 
exercise  our  strength  to  avert  an  impending  evil,  and 
feel  ui]certain  of  success,  or  when  the  danger  is  indefi- 
nite. Secondly  :  It  becomes  terror^  when  it  is  suddenly 
excited,  and  when  it  deprives  us  of  all  presence  of 
mind  ;  then  we  ^row  pale  and  tremble.  This  is  the 
case  when  we  at  once  perceive  a  destructive  power  of 
nature  threatening  us  and  see  no  possibility  of  escape. 
Thirdly  :  It  may  become  sttipefactioti,  when  the  evil 
feared  falls  upon  us  and  really  harms  us. 

There  must  of  course,  always  be  an  object  in  which 
we  take  an  interest,  and  whose  existence  we  consider 
endangered.  These  objects  of  fear  may  be  manifold  ; 
and  as  they  differ,  so  fear  differs  in  its  character.  We 
may  fear  jjhysical  evils,  or  moral  crimes  and  their  pun- 
ishments, the  reproaches  of  conscience,  the  violation  of 
7«o/ior  or  of  that  which  is  sacred  and  inviolable.  Rev- 
erence  is  a  fear,  the  objectof  which  is  Beauty,  Holiness, 
Truth,  God.  And  so  again  with  the  fear  that  our  hon- 
or might  be  violated,  a  feeling  of  shame  and  confusion 
is  connected.  Of  these  many  species  of  fear,  we  shall 
consider  only  two  :  Rei-erence  and  Shame. 

Reverence  is  the  regard  we  feel  for  the  true  value 
contained  in  a  thing,  and  the  fear  to  approach  or  abuse 
it.  Regard  or  respect  is  the  beginning  of  reverence,  and 
he  only  who  can  perceive  the  true  value  of  a  thing  is 
susceptible  of  regard  and  reverence.  In  proportion  as 
a  man  is  truly  cultivated,  in  proportion  as  he  can  discern 
an  eternal  and  indestructible  value  in  nature,  in  beauty, 
and  truth,  he  will  revere  ihemjand  the  more  wnWrever- 


340  PSYCHOLOGY. 

ence  be  the  bloom  of  all  his  cultivation.  This  fear  is 
therefore  delicate  ;  its  object  is  not  the  occurrence  of  a 
physical  evil,  but  that  of  an  ideal,  a  nnoral  misfortune. 
Such  would  be  the  violation  of  any  thing  sacred  to 
him  whose  mind  is  truly  cultivated.  The  barbarian 
destroys  whatever  comes  in  his  way ;  not  having  the 
most  distant  idea  of  the  value  of  beauty,  he  ruins  the 
finest  works  of  art.  In  times,  when  all  fear  of  laws, 
and  the  fear  of  all  that  is  sacred  is  gone,  as  in  those  of 
revolutions,  no  monument  of  former  greatness  however 
grand,  is  protected  from  the  hand  of  destruction.  It  is 
easy  to/ear,  but  difficult  to  revere.  Reverence,  then,  is 
the  tender  fear  which  we  feel  in  the  presence  of  per- 
sons, or  in  handling  things,  the  value  of  which  has  be- 
come known  to  us,  and  which  we  fear,  to  injure  or 
abuse. — Shame,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  fear  felt  by  us 
of  losing  the  good  opinion  of  others,  by  a  mistake  or 
error  which  we  have  committed,  that  would  offend  de- 
corum, morality,  or  custom  &c.,  it  has  reference  to 
sexual  relations,  and  in  this  respect  is  the  fear  that 
others  might  consider  us  impure  in  our  feelings.  This 
feeling  may  be  very  painful  and  pervade  our  whole 
mind.  It  may  be  called  forth  suddenly  when  anything 
which  we  desire  to  conceal  from  the  world  is  exposed  ; 
when  a  weakness  is  detected,  or  a  frailty  noticed.  Go- 
ethe has  represented  this  emotion  by  a  most  beautiful 
likeness.  He  says  in  his  Notes  on  his  West-Oestliche 
Divan.  "  In  countries  where  they  have  no  layers  of 
lime,  the  shells  of  muscles  are  used  for  the  preparation 
of  a  very  necessary  building  material,  and  piled  up  be- 
tween dry  branches,  they  become  glowing  hot,  with  the 
flame  which  is  kindled  beneath  them.  The  beholder 
cannot  resist  the  feeling,  that  these  creatures  a  short 
time  before  full  of  life,  growing  and  thriving  in  the 
ocean,  enjoyed  in  their  way  the  general  pleasure  of  exist- 
ence and  now,  not  burned  to  ashes,  but  penetrated  by  the 
fire,  retain  their  full  form,  while  ail  life  is  extinguishecj 
in  them.  Suppose  that  nigtit  comes  on  and  that  these 
organical  remnants  really  appear  glowing  to  the  eye  of 
the  spectator  ;  no  more  appropriate  image  of  the  pain  of 
jhe  soul  can  be  placed  before  our  eyes.     If  any  one  de- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  341 

sires  a  perfect  picture  of  this,  let  him  nsk  the  cbimist 
to  put  oyster  shells  into  a  state  of  phosphorescence  when 
he  will  confess  with  us,  that  the  glowinaf  hot  feeling 
which  pervades  man,  when  a  just  reproach  meets  him 
unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  the  self-conceit  of  confi- 
dent self-feeling,  could  not  be  more  terribly  expressed." 
Thus  shame  penetrates  nran  and  the  blood  rushes  to 
the  face,  till  it  glows  like  the  shells  that  are  penetrated 
by  fire. 

REMARKS. 

1.  Fear  and  hope  cannot  exist  at  the  same  time  in  the 
same  breast,  for  they  exclude  each  other  as  pleasure 
and  pain.  And  so  again  pain  and  hope  exclude  each 
other  as  pleasure  and  fear.  When  we  deeply  mourn,  it 
is  difficult  for  us  to  hope,  and  it  is  wholly  wrong  to  en- 
deavor to  excite  hope  in  the  mourner  during  the  time 
that  his  grief  is  greatest.  The  best  consolation  is  to 
mourn  with  him,  to  sympathize  with  his  grief.  So  we 
cannot  enjoy  ourselves  fully,  when  in  the  midst  of  our 
pleasure  we  fear  poison.  It  is  therefore  equally  impru? 
dent  to  introduce  tidings  of  misfortune,  by  first  exciting 
a  cheerful  mood  in  him  whom  they  concern. 

2.  If  the  animal  can  feel  sensual  pleasure  and  pain, 
and  thus  may  have  something  similar  to  the  two  cor- 
responding emotions,  it  is  wholly  deprived  of  hope  and 

/ear,  for  these  are  impossible  without  a  full  and  clear 
idea  of  futurity,  and  this  idea  is  impossible  without  unr 
derstanding.  Now  it  is  well  known  that  the  animal  flees 
from  certain  objects,  and  this  might  seem  to  resemble 
fear  ;  but  the  cause  of  flight  is  not  a  knowledge  of  the 
danger;  it  is  only  a  feeling  of  displeasure  instinctively 
connected  with  the  sight  of  the  object.  The  perception 
of  such  an  object  has  the  same  effect  upon  the  animal 
that  lightning  has  upon  the  eye  of  man. 

COMPOUND  EMOTIONS. 

These  emotions  are  called  compound,  because  theijr 
elements  are  not  simple,  but  always  partake  of  the  n^- 


342  PSVCHGLOGY. 

ture.  of  two  other  emotions.  These  two  emotions  do 
not  constitute  a  third  one  m  an  external  manner,  but 
receive  each  other  so,  that  their  elements  grow  together 
and  form  internally  one.  Tlie  sap  of  a  plant  consists 
likewise  of  many  different  substances,  and  is  after  all 
but  one  in  its  nature.  The  compound  emotions  may 
be  divided  into  depressing  and  invigorating  affection's 
of  the  mind  ;  the  former  being  founded  on  pain  and 
fear,  the  latter  on  pleasure  and  hope. 

DEPRESSING  EMOTIONS. 

Melancholy  or  Sadness.  Pleasure  and  pain,  as  was 
said  above,  exclude  each  other,  and  where  the  one  is, 
the  other  cannot  be.  And  yet  we  find  them  united  in 
melancholy.  But  they  exist  in  it  as  mere  elements  ^nd 
not  as  emotions  ;  neither  is  any  longer  what  it  original- 
ly was,  but  each  has  entered  into  the  other  and  exists 
in  an  impure  state.  Melancholy  is,  therefore,  both  pain- 
ful and  pleasant.  The  union  of  pain  and  pleasure  de- 
pends on  our  remembrance  of  the  past — hence  it  is,  that 
melancholy  is  not  found  among  children,  for  their  re- 
membrance is  either  weak  or  as  yet  they  have  none  at' 
all..  The  remembrance  of  the  past  is  connected  with  a 
feeling  of  pleasure,  for  it  in  some  degree  recalls  past  en- 
joyments. But  at  the  same  time  the  past  with  its  en- 
joyuients  cannot  be  revived,  so  that  it  is  again  real  ; 
the  remembrance,  therefore,  includes  the  knowledge  of 
a  loss  and  with  it  a  feeling  of  pain.  This  enters  into 
the  pleasure  and  both  become  sadness.  This  emotion, 
which  is  at  the  same  time  both  sweet  and  bitter,  joyful 
and  sorrowful,  expresses  itself  in  three  different  ways  : 

First,  In  old  age,  when  man  looks  back  upon  his 
youth.  Then  he  was  strong  and  vigorous,  then  little 
was  required  for  his  joys  and  yet  they  were  full  of  life 
and  of  warmth.  Cares  were  strangers  to  him,  and  the 
future  smiled  upon  him  like  a  balmy  May  day.  Such 
recollections  are  delightful,  but  they  are  not  without 
sadness,  for  those  days  of  youth  are  gone,  and  never 
will  return.  No  power  on  earth  can  bring  back  even 
a  single  hour.     Nor  were  they  without  their  labors  and 


PSYCHOLOGY.  343 

sorrows,  which  will  likewise  enter  into  our  recollection, 
and  pain  will  minorle  with  pleasure.  So  Goethe  says  of 
himself  in  advanced  ao^e  :  "They  have  called  me  a 
child  of  fortune,  nor  have  I  any  wish  to  complain  of  th^ 
course  of  my  life.  Yet  it  has  been  nothing?  but  labor 
and  sorrow,  and  I  may  truly  say  that  in  seventy-five 
years,  I  have  not  had  four  weeks  of  true  comfort.  It 
was  the  constant  rolling  of  a  stone  that  was  to  be  always 
lifted  anew."  At  another  time  he  said,  "Ishould  not  like 
to  live  my  life  over  again;  as  the  mature  plant  could 
not  desire  to  return  again  to  the  contracted  state  of  buds 
and  seeds."  At  another.  "  When  I  look  back  upon 
rny  earlier  and  middle  life,  and  consider  how  few  are  left 
of  those  that  w'ere  young  with  me,  I  am  reminded  of  a, 
summer  visit  to  a  watering  place.  On  arriving  one 
makes  the  acquaintance  of  those  who  have  been  already 
some  time  there  and  leave  the  week  following.  This 
loss  is  painful.  Now  one  becomes  attached  to  the 
second  generation,  with  which  one  lives  for  a  time  and 
b3Comes  intimately  connected.  But  this  also  passes 
away  and  leaves  us  solitary  with  the  third  which  ar- 
rives shortly  before  our  own  departure,  and  with  which 
we  have  no  desire  to  have  much  intercourse."  In  such 
words  deep  sadness  breathes. 

Secondly,  The  recollection  of  our  home  likewise 
calls  forth  this  sad  delight  or  delightful  sadness.  Our 
fancy  carries  in  itself  the  scenery  of  our  native  country 
to  which  a  part  of  our  life,  of  our  feelings  and  desires 
were  once  closely  linked.  As  these  images  emerge  from 
the  depths  of  our  mind  and  present  themselves  to  us, 
our  numerous  connections,  friends,  relatives,  the  happy 
hours  spent  in  the  circle  of  sisters,  brothers  and  parents, 
will  likewise  appear  before  the  eye  of  the  mind,  and 
when  we  consider  that  we  are  far  off  from  parents  and 
home,  when  then  our  thoughts  are  constantly  bent  upon 
the  scenes  of  our  infancy — we  feel  sad  and  though  un- 
happy, nevertheless  desire  to  retain  this  feeling  of  sad- 
ness, because  it  is  the  only  consolation  remaining  to  us. 

Thirdly,  The  remembrance  of  a  friend,  whose  loss 
is  not  recent,  but  of  by-gone-days.  If  recent,  we  feel 
grief  and  mourn.     But  when  al  a  distance  and  when  the 


:.*^ 


344  psYCHOLoar. 

first  bitterness  of  grief  is  over,  we  delight  in  the  remem- 
brance of  the  hours  we  spent  with  him.  and  at  the  same 
time  feel  sorrowful  because  they  will  never  return.  So 
Yictor  in  Jean  Paul's  Hesperus,  exclaims  of  his  friend. 
"O  !  that  I  could  once  more  speak  to  thee,  good,  dear 
and  noble  friend  of  my  youth."  It  is  not  necessary, 
however,  that  we  should  have  suffered  a  loss  which  we 
bewail,  but  the  beautiful  and  divine  may  make  a  sor- 
rowful impression  upon  us,  and  we  may  become  melan- 
choly by  it.  Music  heard  at  a  distance  has  this  effect. 
Hence  Plato  said,  that  it  reminds  us  of  a  better  home. 

These  feelings  of  desire,  and  longing,  of  pain  and 
pleasure,  constitute  the  theme  of  elegiac  poetry.  In  it 
grief  either  prevails  over  pleasure,  as  for  instance,  in 
the  noble  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-Yard  ;  or  pleasure 
over  grief,  as  in  Goethe's  Elegies.  And  again,  this  poet- 
ry sings  either  of  the  sadness  called  forth  by  the  con- 
sideration of  the  vanity  of  all  things,  by  the  sight  of 
ruins,  the  standing,  but  broken  remnants  of  the  life  of  by- 
gone ages  ;  or  it  sings  the  grief  caused  by  our  own  dis- 
appointments. In  the  former  case,  its  character  is  noble, 
in  the  latter  selfish.  Yet  the  mouth  of  the  poet  is  bless- 
ed, for  in  his  grief  melody  and  speech  are  granted  him 
to  mourn  in  the  deepest  fullness  of  his  distress,  and  if  man 
in  his  sadness  grows  silent,  God  has  permitted  him  ta 
tell  what  he  suffers.  "  ,      - 

ANXIOUS  EXPECTATION. 

This  likewise  belongs  to  the  depressing  emotions,  for 
as  the  person  can  do  nothing  whatever  with  regard  to 
the  object  expected,  its  long  delay  must  weary  and  ex- 
haust ;  what  we  possess  we  can  no  longer  expect,  but 
what  is  yet  at  a  distance  from  us,  we  may  expect.  The 
object  of  expectation  is,  therefore,  always  something 
future  ;  but  that  which  is  entirely  future  is  only  possi- 
ble, and  hence  uncertain.  Expecting  a  thing,  we  hope 
and /ear  at  the  same  time.  We  hope  that  our  expecta- 
tion will  be  realized,  and  we  fear  that  we  may  be  disap- 
pointed. The  more  intense  our  interest  in  the  object, 
the  more  fear  and  hope  will  mingle  in  our  breast. 


PSYCHOLOGY.  345 

This  is  beautifully  illustrated  in  the  poem  of  Schiller 
called  Die  Erwartung,  Expectation^  where  hope  pre- 
vails over  fear,  and  yet  cannot  entirely  free  itself  from 
the  latter.  A  lover  sits  in  a  garden  expecting  his  be- 
loved. Every  rustling  leaf  makes  him  imagine  that  he 
hears  her  approaching  footsteps,  and  he  looks  anxiously 
around  for  her  whose  presence  he  desires ;  every  mo- 
tion startles  him,  and  his  heart  is  divided  between  hope 
and  fear. — Anxious  expectation  is  always  caused  or  de- 
pends on  a  doubt  entertained  by  the  person;  if  the 
possibility,  that  an  occurrence  will  take  place  is  great, 
we  have  hope  in  the  place  of  anxious  expectation ;  or, 
if  the  occurrence  be  of  an  unpleasant  nature, /ear.  For 
example,  we  watch  the  disease  of  a  friend  :  if  his 
danger  is  uncertain  and  his  disease  yet  undeveloped,  we 
are  constantly  under  the  influence  of  anxious  expecta- 
tion ;  if  the  danger  be  great,  wefearj  if  it  seems  dimin- 
ishing, we  hope. 

DESPONDENCY. 

This  emotion  arises  from  the  union  of  fear  and 
pain,  and  is  the  opposite  of  cheerfulness.  It  may  be 
produced  when  we  see  a  friend  sufier;  the  sight  of  this 
suffering  is  painful ;  we  perceive  at  the  same  time  the 
danger  threatening  him,  and  fear  for  him.  This  fear 
uniting  itself  with  our  pain,  makes  us  despondent.  If 
our  fears  are  realized,  our  despondency  becomes  grief. 
This  becomes  mournfulness  when  grief  continues,  and 
it  becomes  still  more  bitter  if  the  grief  is  not  softened 
by  a  sintjle  ray  of  hope.  Despondency  is  increased  by 
the  recollection  of  former  pleasures,  or  by  the  sight  of 
the  happiness  of  others.  Hence  it  loves  solitude. — The 
emotion  of  despondency  manifests  itself  in  different 
ways.  It  unnerves  the  system,  fills  the  eyes  with  tears, 
makes  us  silent,  solitary,  and  reluctant  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  anything.  It  extends  time,  for  "  sad  hours  seem 
long."  Weeping  is  an  interesting  phenomenon  ;  it  is 
the  effect  of  the  influence  and  power  exercised  by  the 
emotions  of  the  mind  upon  the  body  ;  all  weakening 
emotions  strongly  affect  the  glandular  system,  and  espe- 
■         .     44 


346  PSYCHOLOGY. 

daily  the  muscles  of  sight  and  respiration  ;  when  these 
are  weakened,  sloshing  and  tears  will  be  the  natural 
consequence.  These  effects  are  however  not  only  pro- 
duced by  such  emotions  as  naturally  tend  to  relax  the 
system  ;  those  that  are  in  themselves  strengthening,  be- 
come the  opposite,  when  their  measure  exceeds  our 
capacity  to  receive  them.  So  violent  laughter  brings 
tears  into  the  eyes.  ,  The  extreme  of  a  strengthening 
emotion  becomes  weakening.  The  deepest  grief  is 
sil6nt  and  tearless  ;  weeping  would  relieve  the  breast. — 
The  emotion  of  despondency  likewise  weakens  the  soul ; 
it  discourages,  renders  us  indifferent  to  the  world,  even 
to  life,  and  makes  the  sight  of  cheerfulness  painful  to 
us.  Its  effects  on  the  soul  and  body  may  ruin  the  con- 
stitution, and  not  only  attract  disease,  but  render  medi- 
cine ineffectual. 

PATIENCE. 

This  is  the  deep  feeling  of  a  present  evil  or  misfor- 
tune, connected  with  the  hopeof  overcoming  it  by  yield- 
ing ;  or  it  is  pain  combined  with  the  hope,  that  by  en- 
during and  giving  way  to  it  for  a  time  we  may  obtain 
relief.  This  emotion  does  not  excite,  but  weakens.  In 
courage,  the  hope  of  overcoming  an  evil  by  resistance, 
excites  our  activity;  in  patience,  no  desire  to  resist  is 
felt.  The  courageous  man  suffers  the  pain,  hoping  to 
remove  it  by  his  own  power  and  strength  ;  the  patient 
man  bears  it,  hoping  to  be  freed  from  it  in  the  course  of 
time.  To  resist  disease  or.  misfortune  would  avail 
nothing;  they  come  from  a  higher  hand,  and  it  would 
be  childish  to  clench  the  fist,  and, grind  the  teeth,  or 
attempt  to  overcome  them  by  a  sinful  obstinacy.  Pa- 
tience may  be  exercised  as  a  virtue,  and  is  then  the 
result  of  will,  and  not  an  emotion.  As  such  it  is  an  or- 
nament of  the  christian,  and  assumes  tlie  character  of 
an  entire  resignation  of  ouroVvn  will  in  misfortune,  and 
a  readiness  to  leave  all  with  God  ;  or  it  is  the  resigna- 
tion we  feel,  when  we  must  suffer  wrong,  and  cannot 
obtain  justice;  we  then  prefer  suffering  to  doing  wrong. 
A  different  species  of  resignation,  not  in  any  way  a  vir- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  347 

trie,  is  sometimes  manifested  by  warriors,  who  seeing 
themselves  surrounded  by  a  host  of  enemies,  throw 
away  their  weapons,  speak  not,  move  not,  ask  for  no 
favor,  but  suffer  themselves  to  be  hewn  down,  or  taken 
captive.  Such  resignation  is  an  expression  of  pride,  a 
pretended  fortitude.  Patience  may  also  be  exercised  in 
public  life,  and  here  as  an  adjunct  locouraire,  it  may  be 
cultivated  by  soldiers.  Fabins  Cunctor  effected  more 
by  tirinof  out  Hannibal  than  if  he  had  impatiently  met 
him  in  battle. — The  orreater  irritability  of  man  renders 
coiirage  more  natural  to  him,  than  inactive  patience, 
while  the  greater  sensibility  and  inclination  to  retire- 
ment, and  a  feeling  of  dependence  will  cause  patience 
to  be  more  common  in  woman.  Yet  women  may  be 
as  courageous  as  men,  and  there  have  been  some  who 
have  showed  more  presence  of  mind,  and  greater  deter- 
mination in  executnjg  a  plan,  than  many  men  would 
have  done.  A  young  girl  who  could  repeatedly  venture 
upon  the  strong  billows  of  a  raging  river  to  rescue  her  be- 
loved friends  from  danger  ;  a  woman  that  in  the  moment 
of  the  highest  danger,  thrusts  the  dagger  into  the  bosom 
of  an  ill-fated  sedjiicer;  sufficiently  prove,  that  woman 
may  be  courageous. — Patience  is  not  the  opposite  of 
courage,  but  its  opposite  is  cowardice. 

AWE.  - 

This  is  an  emotion,  that  arises  either  from  our  relation 
to  the  supernatural  or  to  the  natural.  Man  stands  in  a 
relation  to  the  supernatural^  by  his  reason  and  will, 
and  the  pillars  of  this  relation  are  faith  on  the  one 
hand,  and  morality  on  the  other.  When  we  believe' 
that  God  is  just  and  holy,  that  nothing  sinful  can  en- 
dure his  presence,  the  feeling  connected  with  this  be- 
lief will  be  a  reliijious  awe;  when  we  are  convinced 
that  the  divine  will  is  sacred  and  inviolable  and  that  all 
duties  are  imposed  upon  us  by  it,  the  feeling  will  be  a 
moral  one.  But  man  jiiay  enter  into  a  relation  to 
the  supernatural  by  his  imagination  ;  the  supernatural 
world' would  then  be  filled  by  his  imagination,  with 
good  or  evil  spirits,  who  in  his  opinion  may  exercise 


^ 


348  PSYCHOLOGY. 

either  a  benevolent  or  malicious  influence  upon  this 
world  in  accordance  with  their  natures.  This  is  the 
orio^in  of  the  fear  of  specters  ;  they  are  the  products  of 
a  diseased  imagination  and  a  corrupt  conscience;  and 
man  in  fearino^  specters,  fears  himself,  his  own  thoughts 
and  fancies.  When  this  fear  reigns,  the  emotion  of 
secret  atce  may  easily  njake  its  appearance.  When  a 
man  really  believes  that  he  may  see  specters, /ear  will 
seize  him,  and  the  emotion  will  not  be  that  of  a%ue. 
But  when  we  ourselves  feel  safe,  when  instead  of  seeing 
specters,  we  read  well-written  stories  of  them,  the  fear 
^and  pleasure  will  mingle  in  our  breast  and  the  emotion 
in  question  will  result  from  them.  So  children  will 
cluster  around  their  nurse  in  the  hour  of  twilight,  and 
listen  with  delight  to  her  stories,  but  at  the  same  time 
they  will  approach  more  and  more  closely  to  her,  and 
would  not  for  the  world  leave  the  room,  without  a 
light.  If  they  felt  only  fear,  they  could  take  no  pleas- 
ure in  these  stories. — The  emotion  of  secret  awe  pre- 
supposes, however,  several  conditions :  First,  A  belief  in 
the  possibility  that  supernatural  beings  can  make  their  ^ 
appearance  in  the  world  and  affect  us.  Secondly,  A 
particular  time;  night,  twilight:  when  the  light  illu- 
mmates  and  defines  the  forms  of  all  things  around  us, 
we  do  not  fear  specters.  When  during  the  day  we  be- 
come interested  in  the  stories  of  specters  and  supernat-- 
ural  apparitions,  it  is  the  poetical  manner  in  which 
they  are  represented,  that  interests  us,  and  our 
feeling  is  that  of  the  sublime.— The  other  form  of 
secret  awe,  arises  from  the  relation  in  which  man  stands 
to  nature.  Whatever  be  the  power  man  may  exercise  by 
his  ingenuity  over  nature,  there  are  some  powers  before 
which  he  must  recede.  Such  are  the  elements  of  water 
and  fire,  earthquakes,  hurricanes,  and  storms.  When 
a  conflajjration  breaks  out  in  a  large  city,  and  in  a  part 
of  it  filled  with  merchandize,  when  we  see  the  flames 
spread  with  the  swiftness  of  the  wind,  and  rise  high  into 
the  air,  when  we  hear  the  report  of  explodiUg  powder 
casks,  and  see  hundreds  of  persons  endeavoring  to  com- 
bat the  flames :  we  are  at  the  same  time  penetrated  by 
fear  and  apprehension,  and  rejoice  to  see  man  oppose 


-m 


PSYCHOLOGY.  349 


the  elements  of  destruction.  Or  when  we  see  a  coura- 
geous person  venture  upon  a  boisterous  river,  when  we 
see  him  strucrorle  and  gain  his  object,  by  ingenuity  and 
presence  of  mind,  we  feel  fear  and  pleasure  mingle,  and 
their  union  forms  what  we  have  called  an  emotion  of 
awe.  <        ~ 

We  may  here  remark  that  a  few  emotions  are  yet  to 
be  mentioned,  which  may  be  ranked  among  the  com- 
pound emotions  : — The  first  of  these  is  astonishment. 
It  arises  when  either  the  opposite  of  that  which  we 
feared,  or  of  that  which  we  expected  takes  place. 
Another  is  surprise  or  wonder:  it  is  the  emotion  that 
takes  place  in  us,  when  we  see  a  power,  with  which 
we  believed  ourselves  to  be  intimately  acquainted,  pro- 
duce effects,  for  which  we  could  not  have  looked. 
When  on  the  other  hand,  man  compares  his  own  power 
with  that  which  he  sees  producing  actions  in  another 
that  would  seem  wholly  impossible  to  him,  and  for 
which  his  energy  would  not  in  any  way  be  sufficient, 
he  will  admire  it.  No  man  on  earth,  unless  he  be 
stupid  and  sluggish,  can  avoid  the  emotion  of  admira- 
tion, for  every  one  will  find  a  power  far  exceeding  his 
own,  and  Horace's  "  Nil  admirari"  is  incorrect.  Who 
would  not  look  with  admiration  upon  a  Shakspeare,  or 
Calderon,  or  Goethe?  We  nowhere  read  in  the  Bible, 
that  Christ,  when  he  was  on  earth,  was  under  the  influ- 
ence of  admiration,  but  we  read  that  once  or  twice  he 
expressed  surprise :  what  power  could  exceed  his, 
and  deserve  his  admiration  ?  The  other  class  of  com-^ 
pound  emotions  next  demands  consideration  and  this  is 
that  of 

STRENGTHENING  EMOTIONS. 

And  first  among  these  we  may  mention  courage. 
This  is  grief,  connected  with  the  hope  of  overpowering 
it  by  resistance.  Courage  demands,  therefore,  as  its 
conditions.  First ;  An  evil,  future  or  present,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  pain  derived  from  an  apprehension  of  this  evil. 
Secondly  ;  A  prospect  of  removing  it  by  our  own  efforts. 
Hope,  one    of    the  constituent  parts   of  courage,  is 


.t 


350  PSYCHOLpGT. 

pleasant,  and  if  connected  with  a  feeling  of  strength,  it 
produces  a  desire  to  encounter  danger  and  to  seek  op- 
portunities for  exhibiting  courage.  Courage  may,  how- 
ever, be  a  virtue,  and  is  then  not  an  emotion,  but  the 
product  of  moral  principles,  of  a  morally  good  will,  and 
of  a  conviction,  that  the  object  in  danger,  demands  our 
assistance. — Courage  as  an  emotion  becomes  bravery^ 
when  a  feeling  of  honor  inspires  to  action  ;  it  becomes 
rashness^  when  the  dans^er  is  not  only  very  great,  but 
seems  to  require  a  greater  amount  of  power  than  is 
possessed  by  him  who  braves  it.  It  demands  a  strong 
inclination  for  action,  much  confidence  and  a  lively 
imagination.  Courage  becomes  temerity^  when  the 
object  of  bravery  or  courage  is  not  promoted  but  frus- 
trated by  it.  The  object  of  courage  is  victory ;  this, 
temerity  loses,  for  it  is  passionate  and  blind.  Courage 
is  considerate  and  self-possessed,  while  temerity  is 
wholly  devoid  of  prudence.  It  may  be  called  forth  by 
disgust  with  life  ;  in  this  case  the  person  meets  his  foe 
in  combat  wishing  to  lose  his  life  in  the  encounter ;  or 
it  is  produced  by  intoxicating  drinks,  or  by  physical 
means,  by  religious  notions,  as  among  the  Turks  who 
believe  that  whatever  is  allotted  to  man,  will  seize  him, 
whether  he  be  at  home  or  in  war,  active,  or  indolent. — 
Boldness  J  finally,  is  courage  that  ventures  to  say  or  ex- 
press what  others  would  hesitate  to  convey  in  sueh 
language. 

WRATH. 

The  strong  feeling  of  displeasure  accompanying  the 
idea  that  others  have  injured  us  either  wilfully  or  with- 
out design,  may  excite  wrath,  as  likewise  the  perception 
of  wrong,  inflicted  upon  others.  Wrath  itself  is  a  sud- 
denly excited  feeling  of  displeasure,  with  the  sudden 
hope,  either  to  resist,  or  to  destroy  the  cause  of  the 
evil.  The  greater  our  bodily  excitability,  the  more 
easily  we  are  brought  under  its  influence.  While  it 
continues,  the  ofiendingobject  absorbs  our  whole  atten- 
tion, puts  us  off  our  guard,  and  deprives  us  of  due  con- 
sideration, so  that  we  say  what  we  afterwards  regret,  in- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  351 

jure  the  innocent,  and  even  inflict  an  expression  of  our 
displeasure  on  inanimate  objects,  like  the  boy  who  stum- 
bling- against  a  stone  vents  his  rage  upon  it.  Modifica- 
tions of  wrath  are  refractoriness,  which  we  feel,  when 
anything  is  urged  upon  us  against  our  will,  or  when  it 
is  suggested  to  us  that  we  ought  to  love  what  we  dis- 
like; indignation,  when  we  perceive  anything  offen- 
sive to  good-breedins:,  to  politeness,  or  to  justice  and 
equity  ;  obstinacy^  when  others  insist  on  our  changing 
our  views  and  opinions,  without  showing  sufficient  rea- 
sons for  our  doing  so.  This  is  the  kind  of  wrath,  the 
absence  of  which  in  a  man  Aristotle  considers  a  sign  of 
a  slavish  disposition.  Anger  is  the  dissatisfaction  we 
feel  with  ourselves,  when  we  have  committed  an  error. 
Chagrin  pre-supposes  a  purpose,  an  end,  which  we  feel 
ourselves  justified  in  endeavoring  to  attain,  but  which 
we  cannot  execute.  While  under  its  influence,  we  be- 
come discouraged  from  attempting  anything  else  ;  and 
take  an  interest  in  nothing.  We  consume  ourselves  in 
silent  anger.  Malice  is  the  pleasure  we  take  in  destroy- 
ing, or  seeing  destroyed  that  which  is  the  favorite  en- 
joyment of  others,  or  which  we  envy  them.  Wrath,  in 
general,  was  more  common  with  the  ancients  than  it  is 
with  us.  To  conquer  it  shows  more  greatness  of  mind, 
than  to  express  or  cherish  it.  Children  and  rude  per- 
sons express  their  displeasure  by  using  ofiensiv.e  lan- 
guage. 

JOY. 

This  emotion  differs  from  that  of  mere  pleasure.  The 
latter  has  only  reference  to  the  present,  joy  always  more 
or  less  to  the  future,  and  hope  is  one  of  its  necessary 
constituents.  Joy  is  therefore  pleasure,  strengthened 
by  the  hope  of  future  happiness.  Without  this  hope  no 
one  can  be  really  joyful,  since  the  prospect  of  future 
misfortune  would  make  us  unhappy.  Joy  rests  on  a 
pleasant  present,  and  a  smiling  future^  it  is  the  union 
of  pleasure  and  hope,  of  the  present  and  the  future.  Joy 
becomes  delight  when  the  long-wished-for  occurrence 
takes  place  as  we  expected,  and  when  at  the  same  time 


352  PSYCHOLOGY. 

a  new  hope  arises  in  our  breast  so  that  care  and  trouble 
can  gain  no  hold  upon  us.  In  such  cases  the  emotion 
of  joy  has  often  proved  fatal ;  for  hopes  suddenly  reahzed 
while  tlie  mind  is  again  drawn  powerfully  into  new 
future  prospects, distract  the  mind  and  by  its  connection 
with  the  body,  cause  the  entire  derangement  or  destruc- 
tion of  the  physical  system ;  as  wrath  is  said  to  make 
every  thing:  appear  blue  to  us,  and  as  fright  dulls  the 
hearing.  The  degrees  of  joy  are  very  numerous,  begin- 
ning with  satisfaction  and  terminating  in  rapture. 
Cheerfulness  is  a  lively  joy;  mirth  a  joy  connected 
with  mischief,  &c. — Joy  expresses  itself  externally  by  a 
cheerful  countenance,  by  singing  and  laughing.  Its 
peculiar  songs  are  lyric  poems,  dith?/rambi,  in  which 
the  poet  either  fully  or  significantly  expresses  what 
moves  and  agitates  him.  It  may  also  express  itself 
without  words  by  merely  humming  a  melody.  Birds 
likewise  sing  and  express  their  peculiar  state  of  self- 
feeling,  their  feeling  of  sensual  pleasure  or  pain,  but 
man  alone  can  laugh^  and  hence  many  have  considered 
laughing  the  peculiar  distinction  between  man  and  ani- 
mals. This  definition  that  man  is  an  animal  that  can 
laugh,  has  been  laughed  at,  and  yet  it  is  correct  in  one 
respect,  unless  the  definition  of  laughing,  by  Kant,  is 
wholly  wrong.  "Whatever  is  to  excite  hearty  laugh- 
ter, must  contain  something  contrary  to  reason.  Laugh- 
ing is  the  transformation  of  an  excited  expectation  into 
nothing."  This  definition,  as  will  be  seen,  has  refer- 
ence to  understandings  to  thinking.  It  presupposes 
an  expectation^  and  this  expectation,  highly  excited, 
sees  what  is  expected  result  in  nothing.  The  nothing 
here  is  that  which  is  contrary  to  reason^  hence  either 
the  physical  impossible  or  the  logical  impossible.  When 
a  fother  has  high  expectation  of  his  son,  and  this  expec- 
tation is  changed  into  nothing,  he  will  not  laugh,  but 
feel  pain  ;  his  expectation  is,  therefore,  properly  speak- 
ing, not  changed  into  nothing,  but  into  pain.  Or  when 
we  expect  great  results  from  the  convention  of  a  public 
body  or  from  the  operations  and  eflfects  of  a  law,  and  find 
our  expectation  deceived,  we  do  not  feel  like  laughing, 
for  our  expectation  has  resulted  in  grief.    The  expecta- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  353 

lion  in  these  instances  is  not  changed  into  nothings  but 
into  the  opposite  of  what  was. expected;  instead  of  the 
law  benefiting  the  community,  it  injures  it.  Animals 
cannot  have  any  clear  expectation,  nor  an  idea  of  what 
is  to  be  understood  by  the  term  "  nothing"  they  cannot 
laugh,  for  laughing,  according  to  Kant,  is  an  expression 
of  intellect.  A  few  examples  will  make  this  definition 
of  laughing  more  clear :  A  person  relates,  that  an  Indian 
when  at  the  table  of  an  Englishman  in  Surat,  saw  him 
open  a  bottle  of  ale,  which  burst  forth  in  a  torrent  of 
foam.  The  Indian  expressed  his  astonishment  with 
many  exclamations,  and  when  asked  by  the  Englishman 
what  he  found  so  amazinof,  he  answered  ;  I  do  not  won- 
der at  its  coming  outj  but  I  wonder  how  i/ou  got  it  in. 
Of  course  we  expected  a  good  reason  for  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  Indian  and  instead  of  it  we  get  nothing,  (or 
what  he  says  is  itself  impossible,  since  no  one  would  be 
able  to  get  the  spreadina:  foam  of  ale  into  a  bottle. 
Again  :  A  rich  merchant  gives  us  an  account  of  the  dis- 
tress and  anxiety  he  suffered  on  his  return  from  India  ; 
he  states  every  thing  circumstantially,  how  he  had  to 
cast  much  of  his  wealth  overboard,  and  how  he  was 
penetrated  and  overcome  by  thti  deepest  despondency  ; 
and  finally,  directs  onr  -attention  to  the  effect  the  mis- 
fortnn'v'  had  upon  him  ;  .we,  full  of  sympathy,  anxiously 
listen  to  hear  what  it  was,  aild  when  our  expectation 
is  raised  to  the  highest  pitch,  he  informs  us  that :  "  the 
effect  of  these  troubles  was  so  great,  that  during  the 
nijfht  following  all  the  hair  on  my  wig  became  gray." 
This  is  physically  impossible,  for  this  hair  has  no  life, 
and  is  not  in  any  way  connected  with  the  life  of  the 
person.  So  when  it  is  asked,  why  Hudibras  wore  bitt 
one  spur,  we  shall  certainly  laugh  if  we  are  directed  to 
look  in  the  poem  for  the  answer,  and  find  the  follow- 
ing : 

For  Hudibras  wore  but  one  spur, 

As  wisely  knowing  could  he  stir, 

To  active  trot  one  side  ofs  horse,  ^ 

The'other  would  not  hang. 

This  answer  of  course  changes  our  expectation  into 
45  . 


354  PSYCHOLOGY. 

nothing,  for  it  gives  no  reason,  but  what  it  states  may- 
be understood  of  itself.  The  definition  of  laughing  by 
Kant,  agrees  in  part  with  that  of  Aristotle,  who  says, 
that  the  absurd  or  incongruous  excite  laughter  ;  it  ex- 
plains, however,  but  one  kind  of  laughter,  for  there  are 
other  kinds  that  cannot  be  included  in  it.  Laughter,  in 
general  as  to  its  causes,  is  a  real  Proteus;  they  can- 
not be  reduced  to  a  single  and  common  class — and  all 
attempts  to  do  so,  have  as  y^t  proved  vain. 


CONCLUSIOX. 


ON  RELIGION. 


We  have  now  considered  man  in  his  different  rela- 
tions to  nature,  to  himself,  and  to  his  fellow-men;  yet 
one  we  have  omitted,  that  to  his  Creator.  This  relation, 
if  it  is  to  be  pure,  must  rest  on  faith,  and  faith  is  the 
gift  of  God.  The  soul  in  its  state  of  nature  is  selfish  in 
all  its  feelings,  words  and  actions  ;  it  is  blind  and  cor- 
rupt, it  poisons  whatever  it  touches,  and  all  its  notions 
of  right  and  wrong,  of  equity  and  justice,  have  for  their 
measure  the  selfishness  of  man.  Hence  constant  wars 
and  litigations,  deceptions,  theft  and  murder  :  courts  of 
justice,  police,  prisons,  punishments  and  even  execu- 
tions. Self-interest  and  selfish  desiress  move  tfie 
mass  of  mankind.  There  is  nothing  good  in  man 
from  which  pure  religion  or  a  knowledge  of  divine 
thino:s  might  proceed,  and  hence  as  long  as  man  is  in  a 
state  of  sinfulness,  God  is  veiled  from  hnn,  and  though 
he  might  see  the  divine  wisdom  and  power  of  the  teleo- 
logical  relations  and  grand  phenomena  of  nature,  he 
cmild  not  discover  in  them  the  holiness  of  God.  But 
what  is  a  relio:ion  without  the  idea  of  holiness?  What 
is  a  knowledije  of  God  if  this  is  not  included  in  it? 
Deris  a  dlabolo  diffcrt  castitate^  says  Melancthon. 
Yet,  I  hear  it  stated,  t|iat  there  were  religions  indepen- 


^  PSYCHOLOGY.  365 

dent  of  a  revelation :  Whence  are  these  ?  Did 
they  not  grow  forth  from  something  in  man? — To  an-- 
swer  this  question  satisfactorily,  we  must  agree  on  what 
we  understand  by  religion.  And  here  we  shall  have 
at  once  to  reject  a  host  of  views,  but  particularly  the> 
following:       . 

1.  Relicjion  is  not  the  mere  knowledge  that  there  is 
a  God.  Such  knowledge  may  be  the  source  of  much 
philosophical  speculation,  but  it  leaves  the  heart  cold, 
and  does  not  animate  the  wilt  to  good  actions.  The 
devils  know  that  there  is  a  God  and  tremble,  they  know 
what  they  hate  to  know,  and  what  they  cannot  love. 
Asfain  :  If  relig^ion  consisted  in  knowledg^e  it  would  neces-. 
safily  follow,  that  the  most  learned  divines  must  be  the 
most  devoted  and  r-ligious  ;  that  the  degree  or  amount  of 
knowledge  must  also  be  that  of  godliness  ;  which  is  by 
no  means  the  case.  On  the  contrary  the  same  amount  of 
knowledge  may  be  found  in  persons  who  have  very  dif- 
ferent degrees  of  piety ;  and  so  piety  may  be  tlie  same, 
thono^h  the  knowledge  of  different  persons  should  differ 
widely. 

2.  Religion  is  not  mere  morality,  so  that  our  will 
driven  by  the  conviction  of  a  future  state  of  retribution, 
desires  every  where  to  fulfill  the  will  of  God,  and  the 
manifold  duties  iniposed  upon  us.  Words  and  actions 
are  mere  empty  sounds  and  forms  j  that  which  is  iheir 
soul  is  the  motive  producing  them.  Motive  and  design 
exist  before  action,  and  are  the  offspring  of  our  sanctified 
or  depraved  disposition.  That  which  renders  an  action 
good  or  evil,  lies  not  in  the  deed  itself,  but  in  the  will, 
and  the  power  that  sanctifies  the  will.  The  same  ac- 
tion performed  by  the  religious  and  irreligious  has  an 
entirely  different  value  as  to  its  moral  goodness.  An 
unsanctified  will  can  only  lead  to  stoic  pride. 

3.  Religion  does  not  proceed  from  a  feeling  of  depen- 
dence in  man.  This  feeling  in  its  lowest  stage,  it  is 
said,  is  a  mere  feeling  of  dependence  on  nature,  its  prO' 
ductions,  its  terrible  or  benign  phenomena.  While 
feeling  dependent  on  nature  in  these  respects,  man  feels 
free  as  regards  his  will  and  moral  actions  and  does 
what  he  pleases.     But  when  the  original  feeling  is  cul- 


356  PSYCHOLOGY. 

tivated,  it  becomes  a  feeling  of  dependence  that  will 
leave  nothing  perfectly  free  in  man,  but  will  include 
his  will  also,  so  that  he  is  and  feels  wholly  dependent 
on  ihe  Infinite.  This  feeling  includes  the  other,  that 
there  is  a  progressive  union  of  man  with  God,  and  this 
is  the  germ  of  all  religion,  whether  Feticism  or  Poly- 
theism, only  that  Monotheism  is  the  purest  of  all  reli-' 
gions. 

This  view  on  the  origin  of  religion  is  one  that  seems 
highly  plausible,  and  to  refute  it  we  shall  consider  for 
a  moment  the  nature  of /eeZf/i^.— We  understand  by  it 
"  the  general  susceptibility  of  pleasure  and  displea- 
sured Activity  whether  physical  or  organic,  has  its 
limitations  ;  these  limitations  have  different  degrees,  and 
the  notice  we  take  of  these  degrees  of  limitation  is  that 
which  we  call  feeling,  and  this  is  either  pleasant  or 
painful.  Every  activity  of.  man  has  a  certain  capacity 
to  receive  impressions,  and  cannot  receive  any  beyond 
it;  if  excited  beyond  measure  it  is  destroyed.  The 
stone  lying  in  the  heat  of  the  sun,  does  not  suffer,  be- 
cause it  remains  what  it  is  though  broke  in  pieces,  and 
beccUise  it  cannot  feel,  though  it  is  burning  hot  to  our 
sensation.  The  plant  cannot  receive  the  rays  of  the 
sun  in  every  degree,  but  only  in  one  commensurate  to  its 
life  or  strength  ;  exposed  to  too  great  a  degree  of  heat, 
it  withers  yet  it  cannot  feel.  But  the  eye  looking  into 
the  light  of  the  sun,  feels  pain  and  may  become  blind. 
We  say  nowthat  when  any  activity  of  man  is  promoted 
by  any  cause  whatever,  a  feeling  of  pleasure  is  expe- 
rienced, when  impeded,  that  of  displeasure..  And  as  the 
activity  differs,  so  the  feeling.  Our  bodily  activity, 
when  the  different  functions  are  harmonious  and  regu- 
lar, is  accompanied  by  a  feeling  of  pleasure,  of  hilarity, 
and  this  is  a  feeling  of  health;  when  these  functions 
are  impeded,  when  digestion  is  sluggish  and  heavy  by 
a  feeling  of  displeasure,  of  a  tendency  to  rest,  of  sick- 
ness. So  feelings  accompany  our  thinking  power,  as 
those  of  pleasure,  when  we  find  what  we  seek  for  in 
the  sphere  of  truth  without  great  labor,  and  when  the 
difficulties  in  oiir  way  yield,  and  those  of  pain,  when 
we  meet  with  different  results  from  what  we  expected,  or 


PSYCHOLOGY.  357 

when  we  do  not  find  at  once  what  we  seek  •  this  is  so 
with  feelings  connecting  themselves  with  the  sight  of 
beauty,  when  we  see  the  infinite  in  the  finite,  the 
thought  represented  is  a  sensible  form  in  an  image. 
These  feelings  are  not  merely  physical,  not  merely  in 
the  nerve,  but  their  ground  is  the  soul.  Every  merely 
sensual  feeling  is  in  a  particular  nerve,  local ;  the  feel- 
ings under  consideration  are  spread  throughout  the 
whole  inner  man  ;  and  again  the  feeling  of  beauty  can- 
not arise  from  a  sensual  impression,  but  must  finally 
rest  in  an  act  of  judgment.  Neither  have  the  feelings 
of  which  we  speak  any  external  objects  ;  but  ihey  are 
wholly  subjective^  the  Tnost  siibjective  possessed  b3'' 
man.  This  can  easily  be  shown  by  comparing  them 
with  sensation.  When  I  feel  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
Wcirmth  is  the  object  of  my  feeling;  when  I  hear  the 
voice  of  a  person,  sound  is  the  object  of  my  feeling; 
when  I  feel  the  smoothness  of  a  surface,  1  feel  with  my 
hands  or  fingers,  and  the  object  is  the  thing  felt.  But 
when  a  feeling  of  pleasure  is  connected  with  the  hear- 
in'j  of  the  voice  of  a  friend  then  ih'is  pleasure  has  no 
object  that  is  felt ;  it  arises  from  the  recog7iition  of  a 
friend,  and  the  object  of  the  feeling  is  pleasure.  Or 
when  the  feeling  of  pleasure  unites  with  that  of  smooth- 
ness, this  has  not  for  its  object  smoothness,  it  has  no  re- 
lation whatever  to  it,  but  merely  to  ourselves.  All  feel- 
ings are  either  agreeable  or  disagreeable  when  they 
have  merely  reference  to  our  sensuality  ;  or  when  they 
refer  to  form  and  contents,  their  expression  is  that  of 
the  beautiful,  sublime,  or  the  opposite.  Now  I  may 
say,  the  lily  is  beautiful ;  or  the  fragrance  is  agreeable, 
in  all  these  instances  the  predicates  express  feelings, 
which  have  in  reality  no  object.  For  the  predicate 
beautiful,  is  not  continued  in  the  rose,  nor  that  of  agree- 
able, in  the  fragrance  :  these  predicates  are  my  feelings 
which  1  transfer  and  place  into  these  objects,  pronouur 
cing  these  their  qualities.  When  on  the  other  hand  I 
say,  the  lily  is  a  bulbous  plant,  then  the  predicate  is  a 
constituent  part  of  the  lily,  a  predicate  resting  in  its 
logical  subject.     The  rose  will  remain  a  rose  whether* 


358 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


I  declare  it  to  be  beautiful  or  not ;  but  it  will  no  longer 
remain  a  rose  if  it  is  not  a  flower  or  a  plant. 

The  first  objection  then  to  be  made  to  the  assertion, 
that  rehgion  originates  in  a  feeling  of  dependence  on 
the  Infinite  is  this  : — Feeling  is  witiiout  an  object  and  a 
mere  feeling  of  dependence  leaves  the  object  on  which 
we  depend,  wholly  undefined  ;  it  demands  therefore 
knowledge  from  some  other  source,  but  knowledge  is 
more  than  feelins^.  Feeling:  without  knowledge  is 
bhnd. 

Ao-ain  :  This  feeling  of  dependence  on  the  Infinite  is 
not  fumd  everywhere  ;  on  the  contrary  we  find  in  its 
place  a  slavish  feeling  of  dependence  on  nature,  on  the 
finite,  on  animals,  vegetables,  stones,  &,c.  If  this  feel- 
ing of  dependence  on  the  finite,  is  the  feeling  of  depen- 
dence on  the  Infinite  but  in  its  rude  state,  it  demands 
cultivation,  and  Can  be  found  only  amon^  the  culti- 
vated, since  it  would  be- impossible  to  cultivate  feeling 
alone,  and  independent  of  the  other  activities  of  the 
mind.  But  religion  is  not  merely  intended  for  the  cul- 
tivated, it  is  for  all,  for  the  rich  and  the  poor,  for  the 
learned  and  the  ignorant.  Nor  is  it  true,  that  the  most 
cwltivated  are  always  the  most  religious. 

And  in  the  third  place :  Feeling  and  thinking  are 
inseparable.  There  is  a  feeling  connecting  itself  with 
the  thought  of  the  Tnjinite,  but  it  is  not  the  origin  of 
this  thought;  it  only  accompanies  it, as  a  feeling  of  res- 
pect accompanies  our  morally  good  actions.  The  feel- 
ing of  regard  may  act  as  a  motive,  but  it  is  not  the 
principle  of  our  actions,  since  to  know  whether  they 
are  good  or  not,  we  must  compare  them  with  the  law, 
and  every  comparison  is  an  act  judgment  and  not  of 
feeling.  And  this  feeling  of  self-regard^  or  respect, 
while  originating  in  the  most  different  actions,  will 
nevertheless  be  the  same.  So  it  is  with  the  feeling  of 
despondency,  of  joy,  of  grief;  they  all  may  have  va- 
rious causes  and  still  be  the  same  feeling. ^-Feeling  be- 
ing without  a  definite  object,  demanding  knowledge  for 
its  very  existence,  is  even  not  a  sure  sign  of  truth,  much 
less  its  origin.  Or  in  other  words^  feeling  may  give 
(Certainty  to  him  that  has  it,  but  not  truth.     Heathen 


PSYCHOLOGY.       -  ,  359" 

whose  religions  are  superstitions,  the  systems  of  siii 
and  wickedness,  have  as  much  feeling  as  Christians,  as 
much  zeal,  and  as  much  fervor.  How  many  are  will- 
ing to  sacrifice  themselves  for  the  supposed  truth  of 
their  religion,  how  many  desirous  of  becoming  martyrs  ! 
All  mysticism  and  superstition  take  their  rise  in  feeling, 
when  connected  with  fancy  and  imagination.  Feeling 
without  knowledge  is  blind,  mystical,  dark,  inexpressi- 
ble and  unintelligible  ;  its  contents  may  be  the  highest 
or  lowest,  right  or  injustice,  joy  or  grief,  wrath  or  ha- 
tred, hope  or  fear,  the  royal  flower  or  the  most  noxious 
weed.  All  feeling  is  changeable  ;  now  it  raises  our  zeal 
and  interest,  and  now  again  it  leaves  us  cold. and  indif- 
ferent ;  now  it  elevates  us  to  heaven,  and  now  again  it 
suffers  us  to  sink  down  to  despair. 

WHAT  THEN  IS  TRUE  RELIGION]^ 

It  is  di.  peculiar  activity  of  God,  which  announcing 
itself  to  the  heart  of  man,  changes  it,  converts  it,  and 
restores  man  to  peace  with  himself,  with  the  world,  and 
with  God.  A  few  words  on  this  definition  will  render 
it  perfectly  clear.  — The  object  of  religion  is  the  restora- 
tion o^ peace  ;  this  can  be  restored  only  by  an  union  of 
man  with  his  Creator,  through  whom  alone  he  can  per- 
ceive the  true  value  of  every  thing  created  by  him  aild 
estimate  it  properly.  This  union  is  to  be  produced  by 
a  peculiar  activity  of  God  upon  the  heart  of  man.  This 
activity  is  ^^ecwZiar,  because  it  differs  from  every  other 
divine  agency  and  announces itsell  as  such  to  the  heart, 
so  that  it  needs  no  further  proof,  but  is  its  own  author- 
ity;  as  the  lijrht  of  the  sun  needs  no  other  light  to 
make  itself  seen  or  manifest,  so  this  activity  of  God,  di- 
rected upon  the  heart,  makes  it  certain  of  its  nature.  It 
is  the  heart  upon  which  it  acts,  purifying  and  convert- 
ing it.  Feelings  and  knowledge  are  changeable,  the 
heart  is  permanent.  Again:  It  is  the  center  of  man, 
nnitiny  in  itself  thought  and  will  and  feeling,  for  from 
it  good  and  evil  thoughts  proceed  ;  it  is  according  to  the 
Bible  the  source  of  desires  and  passions,  the  seat  of  con- 
sciousness, of  the  conscience  and  of  our  whole  inner 


360 


PSYCHOLOGY. 


man.  It  being  changed  the  whole  man  is  changed  ;  it 
being  converted  from  the  world  to  God,  from  sin  to  ho- 
liness, all  the  activities  of  which  it  is  the  seat  will  be  turn- 
ed contemporaneously  and  for  ever.  Hence  while  in  the 
state  of  nature  the  different  activities  of  mind  were  at 
war  with  each  other — while  thinking  delighted  perhaps 
in  abstract,  cold  and  useless  speculations,  in  s^eneralizing 
every  thing  so  that  no  form  in  reahty  could  any  longer 
correspond  with  it ;  or  while  imagination  would  sup- 
press thinking  and  beget  as  in  India  the  most  fantasti- 
cal and  shapeless  productions,  or  while  will  wholly  di- 
rected to  the  sensual,  was  entirely  absorbed  by  desires 
and  passions ; — they  are  now  brought  into  harmony 
pervaded  by  one  spirit,  by  one  love,  and  by  one  object, 
so  that  man  having  God  in  his  heart,  will  have  him  in 
his  thoughts,  in  his  will,  his  actions  and  his  feelings,  so 
that  none  of  these  mental  activities  will  feel  healthy 
and  joyful  without  this  reference-  to  God.  Religion 
then  is  always  based  upon  a  communication  of  God  to 
man,  arrd  where  this  communication  is  wanting,  whete 
the  regenerating  power  of  the  spirit  is  absent,  there  can- 
not be  true  religion.^  We  must-j  therefore,  consider  all 
heathenish  religions  as  superstitions  ;  they  rest  on  a  faith 
created  by  themselves  and  not  produced  by  God  in 
thein  ;  they  do  not  free  man  from  sin  by  converting  him, 
but  lead  him  deeper  into  it.  A  glance  at  them  must 
prove  this  and  especially  prove  too,  that  the  activities  of 
the  soul,  while  man  is  in  the  state  of  nature,  are  atvvar 
with  each  other.  For  all  religions  are  either  the  produc- 
tions of  desire  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other  activities  or 
of  imagination^  or  of  cool  reflection  andi  understanding. 

RELIGIONS  OF  DESIRE. 

1.  The  lowest  of  all  superstitions  and  one  sprea.d 
among  the  numerous  tribes  of  Africa,  is  that  oi enchant- 
Ttient  or  feticism.  It  is  wholly  produced  by  desire  and 
a  feeling  of  want.  By  his  immediate  will  man  expects 
to  effect  what  he  desires,  to  exercise  power  over  nature 
and  its  elements,  to  conjure  storms,  diseases  and  death. 
"  Enchantment  is  in  itself  nothing  else  than  the  expres- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  361 

sioii  that  sotnethino^  opposes  the  purposes  of  man.  and 
that  it  ought  not  to  be."  This  opposition  is  pronounced 
without  the  use  ©f  any  means  in  a  direct  manner,  or 
means  are  called  in  aid  and  the  enchantment  is  indirect. 
The  principal  thin^  is,  that  man  by  his  mere  will,  here 
and  there,  desires  to  coerce  nature  to  be  at  his  disposal. 
Again  :  Whatever  may  injure  or  benefit  man,  receives 
his  adoration  ;  whatever  may  serve  as  remedy  or  means, 
all  stones,  and  herbs,  and  animals,  deserve  his  devotion^ 
for  each  is  possesed  of  a  peculiar  power  and  each  good 
for  something.  Gold  differs  from  copper,  the  hare  from 
a  stag,  the  fur  of  the  former  from  that  of  the  latter  5  each 
has  an  efficacy  different  from  that  of  the  otherj  <fcc. 
The  deity  is  the  fetish;  it  has  no  univoirsal  form,  no  un- 
changeable existence,  but  now  it  is  a  stone,  which  the 
Negro  carries  about  with  him  and  whtch  he  worships 
until  he  gets  tired  of  it.  Then  he  chooses  something 
else  for  his  deity  and  so  on.  Now  it  is  the  water,  that 
attracts  his  curiosity,  by  its  transparency,  penetrable- 
ness,  liveliness,  murmuring ;  now  the  stormy  wind, 
now  the  fire,  which  is  no  less  destructive  than  benefi- 
cial. Or  it  is  a  plant,  a  tree, — as  it  grows  forth 
spreading  and  clothing  itself  in  a  lovely  green,  on  the 
top  of  which  the  flower  in  all  its  splendor  makes  its  ap^ 
pearance — which  attracts  his  admiration,  and  to  which 
he  ascribes  a  power,  it  does  not  possess ;  or  it  is  the 
animal  which  moves  freely  about,  seeks  its  food,  and 
resembles  the  savage  in  its  actions,  yet  is  mute,  mys- 
terious, and  hence  a  wonder  to  him. 

2.  The  second  form  of  superstition  in  wFiich  desire 
is  still  perceptible  is  Buddhism  as  met  with  among  the 
Mongols,  Birmans  and  Chinese  in  the  west.  In  it  de- 
sire is  controlled,  for  the  individual  recedes  before  the 
one,  indistinct  and  unknown  substance,  which  all  in 
all,  is  unconscious  of  itself;  the  individual  retiring  into 
itself  grows  mute  and  silent.  This  superstition  teaches 
that  all  has  proceeded  from  nothing  ;  this  is  the  deity 
and  does  not  mean  an  abstract  absence  of  being,  but  an 
undefined,  incomprehensible,  shapeless  being,  a  being 
so  vague  and  so  without  contents  that  if  we  are  asked 
what  it  is,  we  must  say  nothing  of  all  that  we  can 

46 


362  PSYCHOLOGY. 

know.  All  will  return  to  nothing.  tSilence^  obedience , 
resignation,  are  the  highest  virtues.  The  silence  of 
the  grave  is  the  element  of  eternity.  Cessation  of  all 
morion,  both  in  body  and  sonl,  is  the  highest  happiness 
of  man  ;  when  once  reached,  man  is  the  same  with  Fo 
or  Buddha.  Buddha  himself  stands  in  a  position  of 
deep  meditation  ;  feet  and  hands  cross  each  other,  and 
one  of  his  toes  is  placed  in  his  mouth,  indicating  that  he 
feasts  on  himself,  on  his  own  meditations.  The  high- 
est end  man  may  attain  is  to  connect  himself  by 
meditation  and  silence  with  iiothing  ;  then  he  will  be 
the  same  with  God,  not  to  be  distinguished  from  him. 

The  belief  in  a  metamorphosis  of  the  soul  causes 
the  worship  of  animals,  for  which  they  erect  temples. 
Even  hospitals  for  diseased  cows  are  met  with.  A  mis- 
sionary relates  the  history  of  a  dying  Chinese,  who  sent 
for  him  and  complained,  that  a  bonze  had  told  him,  that 
as  he  was  in  the  service  of  the  emperor,  so  he  would 
remain  in  it  after  his  death,  for  his  soul  was  to  pass  into 
an  imperial  post-horse,  and  he  ought  then  to  attend 
faithfully  to  his  service,  not  kick  nor  bite,  nor  stumble, 
and  be  satisfied  with  little  food.  This  religion,  how- 
ever, worships  its  deity  in  the  form  of  living  men,  called 
Lamas.  There  are  especially  three  of  them,  that  re- 
ceive the  honor  of  being  considered  gods  ;  the  one  is 
Dalai  Lamn,  in  Lassa;  the  other  is  Lama,  in  Thibet,  and 
the  third  in  Tartary. 

RELIGIONS  OF  IMAGINATION. 

1.  Brahminism.  This  is  a  fantastical  wild  produc- 
tion. Imagination  is  not  bridled  in  it  by  reason,  its  form 
is  shapeless  without  measure  or  prnportiou,  and  hence 
though  symbolical,  by  no  means  beautiful.  It  is  pan- 
theistic, for  it  makes  no  disiinction  between  the  free  ac- 
tivity of  God  and  that  of  the  world  and  man.  "The 
whole  world  is  Brahma,  erew  forth  from  Brahma,  con- 
sists in  Brahma,and  will  finally  be  absorbed  by  Brahma." 
The  creation  of  the  world  is  rather  an  emanation,  for 
the  deity  tlows  forth  in  innumerable  gradations,  down 
to  the  being  and  existence  of  finite  things,  which  are 


PSYCHOLOGY.  363 

the  being  of  the  deiii/ itseU.  The  whole  world  is  the 
result  of  a  desire  in  the  deity  for  change.  Hence  all  is 
divine,  a  part  of  deity ;  every  flower  and  every  star, 
every  leaf  and  every  twitr.  Yet  the  Jndiuns  have  not 
one  idea  only  of  the  creation,  bnt  many,  and  these  diifer 
essentially.  In  the  Vedas  we  find  the  following  ac- 
count.— Br.-ihma  sits  in  solitude,  another  being  hiiiher 
than  himself  tells  him  to  extend  hiujself  and  be^et  him- 
self But  Brahma  was  not  capable  during  a  thousand 
years,  to  comprehend  his  extension,  and  [lence  he  re- 
turned into  himself  Cosmogonies  m  the  law-book  of 
Menu,  in  the  Vedas  and  Puranas  differ,  hence  nothing 
can  be  said  with  certainty.  The  Brahmins  are  the  ex- 
istence of  Brahma;  they  came  forth  from  his  mouth  ; 
but  every  one  may  become  Brahma  by  ffreat  rigor  of 
life,  especially  by  remaining  for  ten  years  inactive,  by 
living  on  leaves  and  dried  grass,  by  standintr  on  one 
leg,  crossin<r  the  arms  above  the  head,  (fcc.  Great  phe- 
nomena of  nature,  the  Gantjes,  the  sun,  the  Himma- 
lehs,  are  identified  with  Bralima  ;  every  activity  being 
divine,  imagination  personifies  all,  and  hence  an  innu- 
merable host  of  gods,  at  the  head  of  whom  stands  In- 
dra.  Finally,  sin  is  nothing  but  a  limitation  of  Brahn)a, 
for  iiifi'iite  in  himself,  he  exists  in  the  finite;  to  con- 
quer these  limits  by  asceticism  is  conquering  sin. 

2.  7%e  Persian  Religion.  In  this  we  perceive  the 
deity  divided  in  itself,  a  diuilism  that  is  external  as  to 
its  origin.  In  the  Christian  religion  we  iiave  likewise 
kino:dom  of  Satan,  opposing  that  of  God  :  but  Satan  is 
a  created  being,  and  God  is  in  himself  one;  again,  Satan 
is  conquered,  but  Ahriman  and  Ormuzd  are  continu- 
ally at  war.  The  ancient  Persians  revered  the  sun  or 
fire  as  the  highest  6em^.  Zervane  Akerene  or  eterni- 
ty is  the  original  ground  of  all.  As  nature  does  not 
produce  anything  pure,  as  all  in  it  is  of  an  impure  and 
mixed  nature,  there  must  be  two  principles  and  not 
one  that  is  like  a  tavern  keeper,  who  pours  out  of  two 
casks,  mixing  the  drink.  These  are  contained  in  Zer- 
vane Akerene,  and  are  Ormuzd  or  the  light,  and 
Ahriman  or  darkness.  Light  and  darkness  are  conse- 
quently not  mere  symbols,  but  the  one  is  the  good  an4 


364  PSYCHOLOGY.  ,     • 

the  other  the  evil.  The  difference  between  physical  and 
moral  evil  is  destroyed.  The  good  is  the  light  itself; 
whatever  contains  light  and  life,  contains  therefore 
good  and  is  Ormuzd.  Mithra  stands  between  them, 
assists  Ormuzd,  and  desires  the  destruction  of  Ahriman. 
The  latter  is  sometimes  called  the  first-born  of  light, 
but  is  said  to  have  forsaken  it. 

The  kingdom  of  light  is  unshaken  above  the  solid 
sky  in  heaven  ;  also  on  the  mountain  of  Albordi ;  the 
kingdom  of  darkness  was  below  the  earth  until  it  broke 
forth  into  the  world  of  bodies  of  Ormuzd.  Hence  it  is 
that  the  space  between  heaven  and  earth  is  divided  by 
night  and  day.  Before  this  corruption,  Ormuzd  had  a 
kingdom  of  spirits  of  light,  and  Ahriman  one  of  spirits 
of  darkness.  But  afterwards  the  two  kingdoms  oppose 
each  other.  Those  that  believe  the  lies  of  Ahriman 
will,  however,  be  thrust  into  darkness  after  death,  while 
those,  faithful  to  Ormuzd,  will  be  received  into  the 
kingdom  of  light.  This  then  is  the  religion  which 
makes  God  fight  with  God. 

3.  The  religion  of  enigma  or  the  religion  of  the 
Egyptians.  In  it  we  meet  first  with  the  god  Hermes, 
the  personification  of  mind,  the  god  that  invented  lan- 
guag^e,  writing  and  science  ;  the  spirit  of  light  that  lives 
in  heavenly  bodies.  Osiris,  however,  is  the  god  that 
was  most  adored  by  -the  people.  His  sister  was  Iris, 
the  goddess  of  the  earth  and  the  moon.  Osiris,  the  god 
of  goodness,  the  principle  of  all  life,  like  Ormuzd,  has 
an  enemy  in  Typhon.  Osiris  dies  by  his  hand,  the  god 
himself  is  killed.  Death,  this  great  enigma  of  human 
life,  is  the  principal  theme  of  the  Egyptian  religion. 
Even  their  god  dies,  and  the  highest  happiness  of  man 
is  to  be  buried  near  his  tomb,  to  slumber  near  him 
after  a  life  of  care  and  disappointment.  But  Osiris 
rises  again,  becomes  the  judge  of  all  the  dead  and  thus 
Typhon  is  conquered.  Ahriman  continues  to  oppose 
Ormuzd,  but  Typhon's  power  is  destroyed  by  the  death 
and  resurrection  of  Osiris.  As  Osiris  is  principally 
honored  as  the  god  of  the  dead,  as  their  judge,  so  the 
Egyptians  seem  to  have  paid  more  attention  to  the  dead, 
^han  the  living.     The  palaces  of  their  kings  an4  nobles 


PSYCHOLOGY.  365 

are  crumbled  to  dust,  but  the  monuments  and  tombs 
erected  to  the  dead,  are  not  injured  by  the  tooth  of  time. 
Grottos  destined  for  their  reception  extend  many  miles  ; 
and  the  pyramids  attract  our  attention  at  present,  as  they 
have  gained  the  admiration  of  thousands  long  before 
us.  This  relio-ion  is  certainly  full  of  seriousness,  it 
seems  to  have  discovered  that  all  is  vain,  to  have  a  full 
idea  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul— for  Herodotus 
-expressly  states,  that  the  Egyptians  had  been  first  in 
believing  the  soul  to  continue  after  death — and  yet  they 
adored  cats  and  dogs,  birds  and  monkeys,  and  especial- 
ly Apis. 

The  religion  of  the  Egyptians,  deserves  to  bo  called 
enigmatical  ;  its  hieroglyphics,  the  symbolical  charac- 
ter of  art  among  them,  in  which  every  thing  is  signi- 
ficant, even  the  number  of  pillars,  of  steps,  of  pots  set 
around  the  tomb  of  Osiris,  has  meaning  and  is  not  de- 
cided on  from  considerations  of  proportion.  But 
Oedipus,  a  Greek,  solved  the  enigma  of  the  Sphinx, 
thrust  her  down  the  precipice  and  slew  her.  As  we 
approach  the  religion  of  Greece,  we  perceive  every 
thing  grow  clear  and  transparent,  enigmas  recede ; 
stones  and  blocks  as  mere  signs  are  no  longer  sufiicient ; 
in  the  place  o{  symbols ^  we  have  mythi  and  the  produce 
tions  of  an  art,  that  renders  the  most  dark  and  diificult 
lucid,  and  sets  forth  all  that  may  move  the  breast  of 
man. 

4.  The  religion  of  Beauty^  or  the  religion  of  Greece. 
The  gods  of  Greece  were  persons,  whose  will  was  free, 
and  who  were  not  subject  to  any  power  of  nature,  nor 
limited  to  it.  The  highest  among  these  gods  was  Ju- 
piter;  he  had  given  the  laws  of  justice,  was  himself  jus- 
tice, and  both  Gods  and  men  had  to  obey  it,  yet  with- 
out being  forced  by  necessity,  but  freely  and  willingly. 
But  there  was  an  iron  necessity,  avayKti,  reigning  over 
Gods  and  men,  of  which  it  was  unknown,  whether  it 
was  blind  or  intelligent,  possessed  of  will,  or  a  power 
that  could  neither  determine  itself,  nor  could  be  deter- 
mined by  anything  else,  but  could  not  be  otherwise  than 
it  was.  This  power  allotted  to  every  god  his  portion 
of  power,  and  the  manner  of  his  existence,  and  if  men 


26^6  FSYCHOtOOY.  •      ^        ^ 

sought  counsel  from  the  gods  through  their  oracles  and 
attempted  to  discover  the  future,  the  gods  could  tell  them 
only  what  this  hliiid  fate  had  granted  them  to  know. 
Yet  Zeus  had  given  the  law  and  Sophocles  sings  beau- 
tifully :     "  Be  it  the  lot  of  my  life,  to  preserve  holy  purity 
in  word  and  deed,  faithful  to  eternal  rights   that  came 
down  from  above,  born  in  ether's  space,  which  no  earthly 
being,  no  mortal  man  begot ;  Olympus  is  their  father ; 
never  will  they  sleep  in  forgetful ness,  for  a  god  lives 
powerfully  in   them,  never  growing  old."     "  There  is 
nothing  that  is  not  Zeus,  and  Zeus  is  justice."     Thus 
justice,   right,   the  law  is  acknowledged  and  man   is 
willing  to  obey  it.     But  at  the  same  time  there  is  the  in- 
comprehensible, irresistible  i^«/e,against  whose  decisions 
mortal  man  can  do  nothing,  and  through  whose  power 
he  may  be  forced  against  his  will,  to  violate  the  law. 
Laius  for  instance  receives  the  oracle,  that  he  will  be 
killed  by  a  son,  not  yet  born  ;  to  prevent  this  misfortune, 
he  exposes  the  infant  child  on  the  mountain  Cithaerouj 
and  considers  himself  safe.     But  Oedipus  taken  up  by  a 
shepherd,  fell  into   the  hands  of  the  king  of  Corinth, 
was  educated  by  him  a  distance  from  home,  and  when 
grown  up  being  offended,  he  consults  the  oracle  concern- 
ing the  truth  of  the  insult  and  receives  the  answer,  that 
he  was  fated  to  marry  his  mother.    Believing  Corinth  to 
be  his  home,  he  leaves  it,  lest  the  oracle  should  be  fulfill- 
ed.   On  his  wanderings  he  meets  Laius,  whom  he  does 
not  know;  insulted  by   him  he  strikes  and  kills  him. 
Thus  Laius  falls  by  the  hand  of  his  son,  who  commits 
parricide, Without  having  any  idea  of  it.     He  arrives  at 
Thebes,  the  home  of  his  birth,  but  not  known  toliim  as 
such  ;  here  he  solves  the  enigma  of  the  Sphinx  and  re- 
ceives the  publicly  promised  reward,  the  hand  of  the 
widowed  queen  Jocasta.     She  was  the  wife  of  Laius  and 
the  mother  of  Oedipus,     Thus  Oedipus  violates  two  di- 
vine laws  ngainst  his  will,  beingguided  by  fate.  Andhere 
we  must  remark,  that  the  Greek  heroes  imputed  all  the 
consequences  of  an  action,  all  that  connected  itself  with 
it,  to  themselves,  whether  these  accidental  circumstances 
were  mcluded  in  their  resolutions  or  not.     In  modern 
fimes,  we  hold ,  ourselves  responsible  only  for  as  mucji 


A 


»  ^  PSYCHOLOGY.  367 

as  our  resolution  and  calculation,  our  intention  and  de- 
sign contains  and  all  that  accidentally  attaches  itself  to 
our  actions,  we  exclude  from  the  amount  of  guilt. — So 
again  in  another  tragedy  of  Sophocles,  in  Antigone,  we 
see  the  divine  law  of  family  love  enter  into  a  collision 
with  the  civil  law  or  human  statutes  of  the  king 
Creon.  Both  laws  are  to  be  kept  sacred,  but  Antigone, 
seeing  the  corpse  of  her  brother  unburied,  finds  herself 
in  the  dilemma,  that  she  niust  either  break  the  one  or 
the  other  law.  The  family  law  was  considered  divine 
in  Greece,  the  civil,  human  ;  she  therefore  resolves  at 
the  peril  of  her  own  life  to  offend  the  civil  and  obey  the 
divine  law.  This,  that  she  knowingly  and  by  a  resolu- 
tion of  her  will  must  break  one  of  two  laws,  was  her  fate. 
Here  we  may  remark,  that  before  the  Greek  religion, 
there  was  no  distinction  made  between  divine  and  hu- 
man laws,  and  that  at  present  the  possibility  of  a  collis- 
sion  ofduties  is  no  longer  admitted. 

This  dependence  on  fate  rendered  it  impossible  for 
the  Greeks  to  feel  perfectly  free  ;  but  instead  of  forming 
resolutions  of  their  own,  and  from  the  elements  contain- 
ed in  their  own  self-consciousness  in  important  under- 
takings, they  took  refuge  in  the  oracles,  as  the  Romans 
in  their  angnria,  auspicia^  and  haruspicia.  The  un- 
certainty whether  their  undertakings  would  meet  the 
approbation  of  the  gods,  and  their  feeling  of  an  entire 
dependence  on  them  made  them  seek  their  counsel  in 
every  public  or  private  affair. — We  have  called  the  re- 
ligion of  Greece  that  of  beauty  ;  thus  far  it  has  exhibit- 
ed itself  only  as  that  oi  necessity.  It  is  beautiful,  how- 
ever, in  the  following  respects  : — The  gods  of  Greece 
are  free  and  intelligent  beings;  as  such  they  were  to 
be  represented.  Nothing  in  nature  was  sufficient  to  be 
this  representative,  hence  it  was  to  be  produced  by  art. 
All  beauty  has  the  following  elements.  First ;  Sensa- 
tion^ that  of  seeing  or  hearing.  Secondly  ;  A  pure 
thought.  Every  sensation  is  finite,  limited ;  but  a  thought 
is  infinite.  Here  is  a  contradiction,  and  it  is  remov- 
ed by  the  artist,  who  unites  thonght  and  sensation  in 
Thirdly  ;  An  image.  The  more  this  image  seems  to  ex- 
ist only  for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  the  thought  of  the 


'0. 


368  ,  PSYCHOLOGY. 

artist,  the  more  it  seems  only  the  transparent  body  of 
this  idea,  which  is  the  soul,  the  more  it  deserves  to  be 
called  beautiful.  The  Greek  artist,  creating  by  his 
imagination  in  his  soul  an  idea  of  the  being  and  nature 
of  his  gods,  felt  an  irresistible  urgency  to  represent  this 
idea  to  others  by  an  external  form,  so  that  they  also 
might  possess  it.  The  idea  of  Apollo  was  that  of  a  be- 
ing, free  from  care,  cheerful  in  itself,  vigorous,  and 
powerful,  that  of  intellect  personified.  Such  an  idea  is  in- 
finite in  itself;  the  artist  possesses  the  power  to  represent 
it  by  an  image,  in  a  sensible  form,  and  the  god  appears 
before  us,  creating  in  us  the  idea,  which  inspired  the  artist. 

THE  RELIGION  OF  UNDERSTANDING  OR  COOL 
REFLECTION. 

This  was  the  religion  of  the  Romans.  It  was  Eu- 
daemonism,  a  religion  of  usefulness.  Cicero  praises  the 
Romans  on  account  of  their  piety,  because  they  desired 
the  approbation  of  their  gods  in  all  their  undertakings. 
But  the  truth  is,  that  the  Romans  honored  their  gods 
because  they  stood  in  need  of  them,  for  they  had  their 
designs,  which  they  expected  by  honoring  the  gods  to 
induce  them  to  execute.  When  the  old  gods  were  not 
favorable  to  them,  they  created  new  ones.  It  is  known 
that  neither  the  Greeks  nor  the  Romans  had  a  doctrinal 
part  of  religion  ;  festivals,  the  theater,  were  the  only 
means  of  preserving  religion  in  public.  In  Greece  it 
was  principally  the  tragedy,  which  unlike  that  of 
Shakspeare,  did  not  mingle  mirth  with  sadness,  but 
was  serious  throughout.  Its  themes  were  justice,  pu- 
rity of  disposition  and  action,  the  holiness  and  the  in- 
violability of  the  divine  law.  If  these  laws  were  offend- 
ded,  man  had  to  atone  for  the  offense,  and  it  was  only 
by  submitting  patiently  and  humbly  to  the  punishment 
inflicted  by  the  gods,  that  he  could  become  reconciled 
with  them,  and  with  the  law.  This  is  beautifully  ex- 
hibited in  Oedipus  in  Colonna.  The  Romans  received 
their  tragedies  from  Greece,  and  the  only  entertainment 
of  the  kind,  which  grew  forth  on  Roman  soil  and  was 
peculiar  to  the  Romans,  was  the  butchering  of  animals! 
and  men.     Hundreds  of  men,  four  or  five  hundred  lion& 


PSYCHOLOGY.  369 

at  a  time  were  killed,  or  forced  to  destroy  each  other 
before  a  delighted  public.  In  such  entertainments 
we  cannot  discover  any  moral  worth,  any  thing  that 
could  refine  or  cultivate.  So  the  whole  religion  ot  the 
Romans  was  mean  and  worthless.  A  religion 
that  has  its  roots  in  the  idea  of  usefulness^  is  contempt- 
ible. In  it  the  notion  of  gain  or  the  apprehension  of 
loss,  hope  and  fear  for  himself,  determine  man  to  be 
pious  ;  love  is  not  to  be  met  with  where  usefulness  is 
the  ground  of  religion  ;  here  the  question  is  :  What  is 
the  end  7  and  again  :  Is  it  a  private  or  public  one  1 
If  that  of  a  whole  government,  is  it  dominion^  as  it  was 
with  Rome  ?  Whatever  be  the  object  and  end,  the 
followers  of  such  a  religion  look  to  their  gods  for  the 
satisfaction  of  some  interest,  and  thus  make  them  mere 
tools,  means  for  the  purposes  of  man.  Man  may  honor 
them,  but  in  doing  so  he  hopes  that  they  will  pay  him 
for  his  trouble,  that  his  designs  and  purposes  will  fill 
their  breast  and  make  them  willing  to  promote  his 
wishes.     Such  creeping  humility  is  hypocrisy. 

The  end,  the  Romans  had  in  view,  and  for  the  sake 
of  which  they  desired  the  favor  of  their  gods,  was  to 
conquer  all  nations  and  enrich  themselves  with  the 
spoils  of  war.  Hence  their  highest  god  was  Fortuna 
Publica ;  Roma  is  a  governing,  a  divine,  holy  beisg,  and 
in  the  form  of  a  god  it  is  Jupiter  Capitolinus,  the  high- 
est of  all  gods.  Other  gods  had  to  preside  over  the 
fertility  of  the  earth,  the  skill  of  man.  There  was  a 
Jupiter  Pistor,  who  presided  over  the  art  of  baking. 
Fornax  was  the  oven,  in  which  the  grain  was  dried. 
Vesta  the  fire,  over  which  the  bread  was  baked, — Com- 
paring a  single  god  of  Greece  with  one  of  Rome,  we 
shall  find  a  striking  difference.  "Athena  was  the  god- 
dess of  Athens ;  she  had  not  to  serve  Athens  or  its  in- 
habitants, was  not  their  tool,  but  their  /Spirit,  and 
Athens  was  only  the  external  existence  of  this  spirit. 
Jupiter  Capitolinus,  on  the  other  hand,  is  not  the  Bo- 
man  spirit,  but  he  is  a  god  that  has  to  serve  it." 

Having  thus  touched  upon  the  most  important  forms 
of  superstitious  religion,  we  must  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion, that  man  left  to  himself,  is  wholly  unable  to  restore 

47 


^.fO  PSYCHOLOGY. 

5^  proper  relation  between  himself  and  God,  to  restore 

l|§4rmony  and  peace.     Sin  has  its  root  in  the  will ;  un- 

1^^  it  is  sanctified,  Holiness^  the  soul  and  substance  of 

ij^%ion  will  and  must  be  absent.     But  this  will  can 

qi^l^  be  sanctified  by  the  regenerating  power  of  the 

y^te  Spirit.     Yet  corrupt  as  these  religions  were,  they 

■^^5^  a  faint  echo  of  the  knowledge  of  Divine  things, 

4^^t(^an  received  in  paradise,  a  dark  and  confused  re- 

iliej^l^fance,  held  down  by  sin,  and  not  able  to  emerge 

fep^^j^he  depth  of  corruption,  it  being  itself  pervaded  by 

sj!%io'5he  knowledge  of  death  however,  the  fear  of  evils 

^hW^^.  kind,  the  perception  of  the  vanity  of  all  things, 

t|ii($}Uii^i^t  warnings  of  conscience  even  in  its  state  ofde- 

gfl^.jl^y-j- roused  this  dim  remembrance,  which  in  con- 

nj^Qljp^^i^ith  a  sinful  imagination,  with  desires  and  evil 

q(^^»^^i^.€nce,  produced  idolatry,  the  worship  of  ani- 

}^f(\f,T^rj^ces  and  all  other  parts  of  superstitious  be- 

5jj^;^^fi^.  correctness  of  this  view  appears  _from  the 

i^<\\  \)^^\iikfi  remembrance   of  the  flood,  and  a  hope  of 

the  restor^pn  of  man  to  the  favor  of  God,  run  through- 

oill^j^UilP^pns   more  or  less   clearly.     This  remem- 

1^19(9^  ^HiJjvth is  hope  include  the  idea,  that  there  was 

WSQe,^j?^^t^<j)Jf  mankind  purer,  and  better  than  thepres- 

^Ijjp^iidi  ti>(ij^  the  present  is  not  what  it  ought  to  be. 

'5"^ji^^>j^5J'i>^(lic!?i>lied  too,  by  the  great  number  of  sacrifices. 

-ilKiH^§£^^.#R\  the  one  hand,  that  man  cannot  create  a 

r^|^ipj:^/^f4tife'9iwn,  and  on  the  other,  that  he  is  anxious 

tp  XMPi#sbif]i{(f] higher  being,  we  sliould  expect  nothing 

le^^,i^j]ftni^i|^]^e(,would  seize  with  joy  upon  a  revelation, 

n|^^og^>n£i$jy(TGod  himself.     And  yet  the  opposite  of 

tiy^j:js_tr^<9>ji;tlM8Q  without  religion   is   incomplete;  a 

{^f\^tj;j:|)f{|li|^  r^^  flowered;  a  bell,  without  a  tongue, 

\j?[J)i^,h,p§iftfl9;tgvi^ft{9  clear  and  distinct  sound;  a  planet, 

tJlft^^^Hi^P§fuWfWri®^pd  from  its  sun,  is  without  light;  a 

i^yg,  >Y'^^j\a«it  fio^^mpass,  a  stranger  without  a  home. 

45p4(fWngn:i<^^^^A^Als;P)  his  sin  veils  the  light  of  revela- 

tj^  a^ij^ QJQpdith^liiM the  sun.     Revelation  is  there,  but 

he  cannotj?e^/ijt,jipanse  the  eye  of  his  soul  is  filled  with 

tfefiii^'^te^^^^flf'is^^ri^^t^^fi^^  ^ith  its  state,  it  feels  pain, 

^h§ficJ9oi{Pgl4ntoibeilight  of  revelation.     We  cannot 

Wi^fefe|14)&p5kifli\«iB«Wiers  an  extract  from  the  begin- 


PSYCHOLOGY.  371 

ning"  of  the  seventh  book  in  Plato's  Republic,  which 
though  written  by  a  heathen,  expresses  the  relation  o 
the  sinner  to  the  gospel  in  a  masterly  manner.  Per- 
haps it  may  have  more  weight  with  some,  than  if  it 
were  written  by  a  distinguished  divine  of  modern 
times  : — 

"  See  men  in  a  subterraneous,  cavernlike  dwellinj^, 
which  has  an  openinor  along  the  whole  cavity  towards 
the  light.  Suppose  that  from  their  infancy  they  were 
chained  by  the  neck  and  limbs,  so  that  they  must  remain 
on  the  Same  spot  and  can  only  \oo\i  forward^  but  are 
unable  on  account  of  the  fetters  to  turn  their  heads 
around.  A  fire  burning  above,  and  at  a  distance  behind 
them,  gives  them  light.  Between  the  captives  and  the 
fire,  a  road  passes  ;  along  it  runs  a  wall,  like  one  which 
jug^glers  erect  before  the  spectators,  from  behind 
winch  they  exhibit  their  skill.  Along  this  wall  men 
are  carrying  all  kinds  of  vessels,  which  overtop  the  wall, 
and  statues  and  other  stone  and  wooden  images  of  all 
kinjds  of  art.  Some  of  these  men  speak,  others  are 
silent.  This  whole  comparison  now  applies  to  us.  For 
in  the  first  place  these  chained  persons  see  nothing  of 
themselves  and  of  each  other,  except  the  shadows  cast 
by  the  fire  upon  the  opposite  wall  of  the  cavern.  And 
so  of  all  that  is  carried  along  the  wall,  only  the  shadows 
are  seen.  Now  if  they  can  speak  with  each  other,  they 
certainly  name  what  they  see.  And  if  their  prison  had 
an  echoy  they  would,  when  one  of  the  passers  by  should 
speak,  imagine  the  fleeting  shadows  were  speaking. 
Hence  they  would  not  consider  anything  else  to  be  true 
than  the  shadows  of  those  works  of  art. — Let  us  then 
consider  the  cure  and  redemption  from  their  chains  and 
ignorance;  how  it  will  be,  if  they  should  meet  with  the 
following  things  : — Suppose  one  was  unchained  and 
forced  to  walk  up,  and  to  look  into  the  light,  and  iii 
doing  so,  he  felt  pain  and  could  not  on  account  of  the 
dazzling  splendor  perceive  those  things,  the  shadows  of. 
which  he  saw  before ;  if  then  any  one  should  assure 
him,  that  before  he  saw  only  vanities,  but  now,  nearer 
to  reality  and  turned  to  that  which  truly  is,  he  saw  more 
correctly,  and  if  he  showing  him  all  that  passed  by, 


372  PSYCHOLOGY. 

should  ask  him,  what  each  is  and  force  him  to  answer, 
he  certainly  would  be  confused  and  would  believe,  that 
what  he  formerly  saw,  was  more  real,  than  what  now 
was  shown  him.  And  if  he  were  urged  to  look  into 
the  light,  his  eyes  would  pain  him,  he  would  flee  it  and 
return  to  that,  which  he  is  able  to  look  at,  firmly  con- 
vinced that  it  was  more  true  than  what  was  shown 
him  last.  Suppose  too,  some  one  would  violently  lead 
him  up  the  rough  and  steep  ascent  and  not  release  him, 
until  he  had  brought  him  to  the  light  of  the  sun  ;  he  will 
feel  much  pain,  and  be  dragged  up  against  his  will.  And 
when  he  now  comes  to  the  light,  and  has  the  eyes  full 
of  rays,  he  will  be  unable  to  see  any  thing  of  all  that  is 
shown  him,  as  being  real  and  true.  In  order  to  see, 
what  is  above,  he  must  become  accustomed  to  the  light, 
at  first  he  would  most  easily  perceive  shadows;  then 
the  reflections  of  men  and  other  things  in  the  water, 
and  at  length  men  themselves.  And  thus  he  would  prefer 
contemplating  what  is  in  the  sky,  and  the  sky  itself  at 
night,  and  seeing  the  light  of  the  moon  and  stars  to  look- 
ing at  the  sun  and  the  light  in  the  day.  But  after  some 
time  he  will  be  able  to  view  the  sun  itself  instead  of 
the  image  in  the  water,  and  then  he  will  And  out,  that  it 
is  he,  that  causes  the  revolutions  of  time  and  years,  and 
disposes  all  in  the  visible  space,  and  is  also  the  cause  of 
what  the  captives  saw  in  their  cavern.  And  if  he  should 
now  remember  his  first  dwelling  and  his  fellow  cap- 
tives, he  would  certainly  consider  himself  happy  and 
pity  them, — if  they  were  in  the  habit  of  giving 
honor,  praise  and  rewards  to  him  who  could  most  ac- 
curately see  the  passing  shadows  and  remember  best 
what  came  first,  what  last,  and  what  at  the  same  time, 
and  who  could  best  foretell  what  will  come  next,  he 
would  no  longer  desire  this  reward,  nor  envy  those  in 
power  apd  honored  among  them.  He  would  much  rather 
like  Achilles  in  Hades,  prefer  cultivating  the  land  of  a 
poor  man  and  enduring  every  thing  else,  to  having  such 
notions  and  living  there  again.  And  this  we  will  consider 
yet,  that  if  he  should  go  down  again  and  sit  in  his 
place,  his  eyes  would  be  full  of  darkness,  coming  direct- 
ly from  the  sun.    And  if  he  should  again  emulate  those 


PSYCHOLOGY.  373 

who  had  always  been  captives  there,  in  the  examination 
of  those  shadows,  while  there  was  yet  a  gUmmer  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  while  they  had  not  yet  accustomed 
themselves  again  to  darkness : — he  would  be  laughed  at, 
and  they  would  say,  that  he  had  come  down  with  spoiled 
eyes,  and  that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  ascend ;  but 
that  every  one  ought  to  be  killed,  that  would  attempt  to 
force  them  and  take  them  np  to  the  light  of  the  sun." 
[The  Jews  really  did  so.] 

"  The  whole  picture  must  now  be  applied  thus  :  The 
region,  which  becomes  manifest  to  us  by  sight,  is  the 
cavern  ;  the  power  of  the  sun  is  the  light  of  the  fire  in 
the  prison,  the  act  of  ascending  and  the  view  of  the 
things  above,  is  the  elevation  of  the  soul  into  the  region  «^' 
of  knowledge.  Now  my  belief  is  this,  [Plato  speaks]  and 
God  knows  whether  it  is  correct.  What  1  know  is 
this,  that  last  of  all,  that  may  become  known,  and  only 
with  great  pains  the  idea  of  the  good  is  perceived  ;  but 
when  once  perceived^  it  is  acknowledged  as  the  power 
of  all  the  good  and  beautiful,  wherever  it  be  met,  of  the 
light  and  the  sun  from  which  it  flows  forth,  in  the  visi- 
ble ;  of  truth  and  reason  in  all  knowable  things,  so  that 
every  one  must  see  this  idea,  if  he  will  act  rationally 
either  in  private  or  public  afiairs."  , 


FINIS. 


APPENDIX. 


NOTE  I.— ON  ANIMAL  MAGNETISM. 

When  treating  on  nctural  Somnambulism,  we  promised  to 
give  in  an  appendix  a  theory  on  the  artificial  Somnambulism 
which  we  shall  now  present  in  some  extracts  from  Wirth's 
Treatise  on  this  subject,  without  expressing  an  opinion  as 
to  its  correctness.  It  is  given,  however,  because  it  is  the 
newest  theory  : 

SUBJECTIVE  CONDITIONS. 

In  an  organic  respect. 

A  healthy  state  of  the  system  is  unfavorable  to  Somnam- 
bulism. For  the  organic  support  which  conf^ists  in  the 
completion  of  the  organic  life  by  that  of  another,  pre-sup- 
poses  in  the  former  the  want  of  an  independent  union,  of  a 
harmonious  c<  operation  of  all  the  organs,  and  this  want 
is  sickness.  Nervous  diseases,  a  prevailing  excitability  of 
the  nerves,  and  suppressed  spontaneity,  epileptic,  catalep- 
tic, and  other  diseases  of  the  kind,  as  hysterics,  hypochon- 
dria, &c.,  dispose  to  magnetic  life. 

In  an  intellectual  respect. 

The  soul  of  the  sick  person  must  be  dependent  on  the 
physical  life  of  the  nerves.  A  strong  mind  that  has  ob 
tained  independence  of  thought  by  thinking,  cannot  be  put 
into  magnetic  sleep.  The  magnetic  relation  in  its  full  ex- 
tent is  this  : — the  magnetizer  possesses  an  unbounded  influ- 
ence over  the  whole  being  of  the  magnetized  ;  it  is  a  rela- 
tion of  the  most  internal  union  of  two   individuals,  both 


376  APPENDIX. 

bodily  and  mentally,  yet  the  one  wholly  depends  on  the 
other.  Hence  a  disposition  is  required  on  the  part  of  the 
one,  that  will  yield  entirely  to  the  other.  This  is  especial- 
ly the  disposition  of  woman  :  yet  here  also  it  demands  a 
specific  development,  so  that  all  women  are  not  equally 
susceptible  of  animal  magnetism.  Feeling  must  prevail, 
the  understanding  must  be  but  of  moderate  strength. 

OBJECTIVE  CONDITIONS- 

The  nervous  power  of  the  magnetlzer  must  be  an  exact 
measure,  neither  too  weak  nor  too  strong  ;  it  must  be 
stronger  than  that  of  the  magnetized,  yet  not  overpower- 
ing, otherwise  it  causes  cramps,  &c.  Again  :  As  woman  is 
particularly  disposed  to  animal  magnetism,  so  man  is  best 
qnalified  for  magnetizing.  The  magnetizer  is  to  strength- 
en the  magnetized. — As  regards  the  cures  to  be  effected  by 
animal  magnetism,  they  will  be  the  easier  the  more  healthy 
the  magnetizer.  Diseases  of  the  magnetizer  are  transfer- 
red to  the  magnetized. — Persons  without  sympathy  for  the 
sufferings  of  the  somnambulist  excite  her  antipathy,  and 
committees  appointed  to  investigate  somnambulism,  if  preju- 
diced, will  never  discover  its  nature.  Their  scepticism  sup- 
presses all  magnetic  phenomena  in  the  somnambulist. 

How  the  rapport  itself  is  originated,  is  too  well  known 
to  be  mentioned  here  at  length.  The  means  are  either 
Volar)  or  Dorsal,  or  Jl/ar^maZ- manipulation.  Each  of  these 
has  its  subdivisions,  for  the  volar  manipulation  may  be  ef- 
fected either  by  the  palm  of  the  hand  or  the  fingers.  We 
shall  however,  omit  these  external  means  and  ask  :  Wherein 
does  the  magnetic  agency  consist  ?  Some  answer,  "  In  the 
particles  of  evaporation,^'  and  these  are  either  considered  to 
be  alive  or  dead.  Others  say  :  "  It  is  the  mind  as  appears 
from  the  fact  that  persons  can  be  magnetized  at  a  distance." 
But  mind  cannot  be  entire  without  some  material  substra- 
tum, hence  it  is  said  that,  *'  it  is  organico-psychical  life," — the 
union  of  matter  and  mind  which  flows  ibrth  from  the  mag- 
netizer and  communicates  itself  to  the  magnetized.  This 
agent  acts  therefore  in  those  particles,  in  which  the  indi- 
vidual life  begins  to  dissolve  itself  and  returns  to  the  cosni- 
cal  powers,  consequently  the  matter  of  evaporation  and 
warmth,  yet  not  as  dead  matter  but  as  the  excretions  of  an 
internal  process  of  life  which  imposes  its  specific  character 


APPENDIX.  377 

on  them.  A  magnetizer  held  a  piece  of  glass  in  his  hand, 
and  then  covered  it  with  silk,  and  nevertheless  his  soinnarn- 
bulist  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  he  touched  it.  This  agent  acts 
upon  the  somnambulist  hy  manipulation  ;  for  being  still  alive 
and  organic  in  its  nature,  though  separating  itself  from  an 
organism  it  is  powerful  and  "  indestructible."  But  how  are 
we  to  understand  the  whole  process  ?  This  question  is  the 
same  as  that  concerning  the  origin  of  sensation  or  percep- 
tion. For  every  perception  of  a  foreign  object  is  the  re- 
ception of  an  impression,  which  this  object  makes  upon  us, 
and  this  is  what  we  consider  to  be  essential  in  the  magnetic 
rapport.  Perception  is  something  sensual-intellectual,  and 
the  soul  is  its  ground.  By  perception  we  find  some  exter- 
nal object  in  ourselves,  the  inanimate  cannot  find  anything 
in  itself;  the  power  of  finding  \s  psychical.  Finding  some- 
thing in  ourselves  we  on  the  one  hand  enter  it,  and  on  the 
other  remain  nevertheless  within  ourselves.  Perception  be- 
comes possible,  therefore,  only  by  the  union  of  soul  and 
body,  for  it  demands  nerves  and  psychical  activity,  both  in 
one.  The  life  of  the  magnetizer  enters  that  of  the  magne- 
tized, as  the  ray  of  the  sun  coming  from  so  great  a  distance, 
enters  the  life  of  the  eye.  If  we  cannot  understand  the 
latter  we  shall  not  be  able  to  understand  the  former,  for  both 
rest  on  the  same  principle.  The  objection  that  this  mag- 
netic agent  is  not  felt  by  all,  is  of  no  weight.  The  nerv- 
ous system  of  the  magnetized  must  be  deranged,  weak,  and 
incapable  of  resisting  external  impressions  to  the  same  ex- 
tent as  a  healthy  person.  Perception  among  the  rest  is 
this  ;  we  extend  our  feeling  into  an  external  object,  and  yet 
remain  wliolly  within  ourselves,  do  not  become  changed,  do 
not  suflTer  in  our  own  identity.  When  we  are  weak,  how- 
ever, the  impression  of  an  external  object  will  more  fully 
and  irresistibly  affect  us  and  communicate  its  union  and 
harmony  to  our  disordered  nervous  system.  It  is  this 
communication  that  causes  the  cures ;  for  the  life  of 
the  magnetized  becomes  saturated  with  that  of  the  magne- 
tizer. 

The  rest  thus  communicated  exhibits  itself  at  first  as  sleep; 
this  rest  passes  over  into  activity,  it  becomes  Somnambulism 
as  soon  as  the  organic  union  with  the  magnetizer  is  com- 
plete. 


48 


^  *  #  ^ 


378  -*  APPENDIX. 


PHENOMENA  OF  THE  MAGNETIC  RAPPORT. 

1 .  Organic  Rapport  between  the  Magnetizer  and  the  Magne- 

tized, 

This  exhibits  itself  above  all  by  a  transfer  of  the  sensi- 
bility of  the  magnetizer  to  the  magnetized.  She  feels, 
smells,  sees,  hears,  and  tastes  as  the  magnetizer.  A  mag- 
netizer took  a  pinch  of  sniifT,  and  scarcely  had  he  done  so 
when  his  somnambulist  complained  of  itching  in  her  nose, 
produced  by  tobacco.  Another  somnambulist  felt  all  the 
dryness  caused  in  the  throat  by  thirst,  from  which  her  mag- 
netizer suffered.  [The  examples  introduced  are  too  nu- 
merous for  our  purpose.] 

2.  Reflex  condition  of  the  psychical  activities  of  the  Mag- 

netizer in  the  body  of  the  Somnambuli&i. 

The  magnetizer  can  produce  the  desired  effects  in  the 
magnetized  by  his  mere  will.  A  somnambulist  was  lame  in 
both  of  her  right  limbs,  and  at  the  same  time  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  speak.  The  magnetizer  could,  by  merely  willing 
it,  so  shake  the  lame  limbs  that  she  jumped  from  her  chair. 

3.  Spiritual  rapport  between  the  Magnetizer  and  the  Mag- 

netized. 

When  the  magnetizer  removes,  the  somnambulist  is  griev- 
ed, and  feels  herrelf  drawn  after  him  ;  if  he  for  a  time  for- 
gets her,  she  feels  anxious,  and  if  he  withdraws  his  confi- 
dence, she  ft  els  completely  unhappy.  On  the  other  hand 
she  feels  well  and  cheerful  when  she  is  the  sulject  of  his 
thoughts.  The  union  grows  daily  stronger,  until  the  feel- 
ings, views,  and  thoughts  of  the  magnetizer  communicate 
themselves  to  the  magnetized. 

Somnambulists  feel  sad  when  the  magnetizer  feels  so  ;  if 
he  is  angry  at  them  they  have  convulsions  ;  if  he  is  chet^r- 
ful  they  are  so  likewise.  This  is  to  be  explained  by  the 
fact,  that  every  feeling  and  sensation  has  its  expression  in 
some  of  the  bodily  organs;  joy  in  the  heart,  wrath  in  the 
liver;  the  psychical  lifie  communicates  itself  to  the  bodily, 
and  the  magnetic  agent  is  the  union  of  both,  as  separating 


V  i. 


APPENDIX.  379 

itself  from  the  living  organism  ;  all  the  feelings  of  the  mag- 
\netizer,  according  to  the  above  theory,  are  transferred  by 
this  agent  into  the  magnetized.  It  may  here  be  remarked 
that  the  aj^ent  will  always  communicate  itself  to  the  same 
organs  from  which  it  flows  forth,  and  consequently  produce 
the  same  effects  from  which  it  resulted. 

Again  ;  Somnambulists  know  the  conceptions  of  their 
magnetizers.  Those  that  before  were  by  no  means  noble 
in  their  manner  of  thinking,  have  pure  and  elevated  ideas 
in  their  state  of  magnetism,  if  the  magnetizer  is  of  a  noble 
character,  and  the  same  is  the  case  when  the  relation  is  tl^ 
reverse.  This  is  to  be  explained  simply  on  the  former 
principle.  Every  idea  originates  in  sensations;  the  con- 
tents of  sensation  and  perception  are  the  same,  and  only 
the  form  is  different.  And  as  we  receive  the  conceptions 
from  {sensations,  they  again  communicate  themselves  to  the 
sensations,  and  thus  affect  the  same  organs  in  which  the 
sensations  from  which  the  conceptions  proceeded,  originally 
took  place.  Thus  the  conception  of  beauty  enters  intothesen- 
sation  of  sight,  of  music  the  ear.  Hence  it  is  that  the  mere 
idea  of  something  disagreeable  will  cause  nausea  in  the 
stomach.  Conceptions,  therefore,  impress  themselves  upon 
the  nerves  and  their  motions,  so  that  an  adequate  motion 
ot  the  nerves  always  accompanies  the  activity  ot  our  con- 
ceptions and  reproductive  fancy.  Hence,  if  the  above  the- 
ory be  correct,  the  ftonceptions  of  the  magnetizer  are  easi- 
ly transferred  to  the  magnetized.  The  same  sensation  is 
first  produced  up(jri  the  nerves,  and  then  with  the  satne  ne- 
cessity that  a  determined  sensation  is  formed  by  the  mind 
of  the  matrnetizer  into  a  conception,  a  similar  conception 
will  be  called  forth  in  the  magnetized.  The  whole  process 
is  this  :  The  images  of  the  fancy  of  the  magnetizer  are  ori- 
ginally the  result  of  a  purely  mental  activity;  they  becoine, 
however,  images  which  impress  themselves  upon  the  nerves 
in  a  perfectly  adequate  manner;  this  affection  of  the  nerves 
communicates  it  itself  to  the  magnetized  in  whom  it  is  again 
spiritualized  and  becomes  a  conception.  Thej  same  princi- 
ple explains  the  transfer  of  thoughts  from  the  magnetizer  to 
the  magnetized  ;  for  even  the  most  abstract  thoughts  will 
seek  for  examples  and  images  to  illustr..td  itself.  Kvery 
thought,  however  pure,  has  some  sensual  side  by  which  its 
communication  from  the  magnetizer  to  the  magnetized  be- 
comes   possible.      A    number   of  instances   are   recorded, 


m 


380 


APPENDIX. 


where  the  magnetizer,  as,  for  instance,  Eschenmayer,  had 
formed  a  mystical  system  of  philosophy,  and  the  magnetized 
in  her  somnamhuhsm  would  think  and  speak  as  if  she  were  fa- 
miliarly acquainted  with  it.  The  mystic  numbers  constitute 
an  element  of  Eschenmayer's  philosophy,  and  "  die  Seherin 
von  Prevorst"  handled  this  element  with  perfect  case.  Yet 
when  awake,  she  was  wholly  ignorant  of  it.  The  possi- 
bility of  all  this  is  not  to  be  doubted  when  we  consider  how 
manifold  are  the  motions  of  the  nerves  and  muscles  of  the 
face,  and  that  almost  every  thought  seems  to  have  a  cor- 
responding motion.  Many  remarkable  instances  are  given 
in  which  the  magnetized  seem  to  obtain  the  skill  and  ability 
of  the  magnetizer.  A  boy  of  fifteen  years  spoke  Latin 
more  fluently  when  in  the  magnetic  sleep,  than  he  could 
speak  his  native  tongue  when  awake.  With  another  per- 
son who  understood  English,  and  with  whom  he  was  en  rap- 
port,  he  spoke  English,  though  he  had  never  learned  it. 
Skill,  and  ability  in  anything,  must  have  an  adequate  expres- 
sion in  the  nerves  of  the  body  to  a  higher  degree  than  mere 
thoughts,  since  they  must  have  become  a  habit,  and  could 
have  become  so  only  by  repetition.  So  we  see  that  in  one 
who  speaks  many  languages  with  ease,  the  body,  eye,  lips, 
muscles,  become  a  transparent  veil  of  the  mind.  The  more 
fluently  one  speaks  a  language,  the  more  the  organs  of 
speech  adapt  themselves  to  it.  Lastly  :  Many  magrret- 
ized  persons  prescribe  for  their  diseases,  and  such  reme- 
dies as  their  magnetizer,  if  a  physician,  would  himself  have 
prescribed.  Thus  also  the  thoughts  singly  or  in  connec- 
tion, pass  from  the  latter  to  the  former. 

In  this  Theory,  Animal  Magnetism  is  considered  a  dis- 
ease, and  consequently  by  no  means  a  privilege  of  the  mag* 
netized ;  this  is  the  only  correct  view  ;  Animal  Magnetism 
is  not  above,  but  below  the  common  and  healthy  life  of  man  ; 
those  that  praise  it  and  raise  it  above  the  waking  mind,  do 
not  understand  its  nature.  Nor  can  any  moral  person  be 
willing  to  make  himself  wholly  dependent  on  another,  and 
the  practice  of  animal  magnetism  has  therefore  something 
revolting  to  a  truly  moral  feeling. 

NOTE  11.— ON  IMAGINATION. 

It  is  generally  thought  that  no  necessity  whatever  pre- 
vails in  matters  of  fine  taste,  but  that  every  one  as  he  has 


APPENDIX.  .  *f^  381 

a  sensual  taste  of  his  own,  concerning  which  no  rules  can 
be  given,  has  also  a  taste  of  his  own  with  regard  to  beauty. 
Ttie  sensual  taste  has  reference  only  to  matter  and  its  qual- 
ities and  hence  nothinij  depends  on  the ybrm,  in  which  this 
matter  is  presented.  The  man  who  is  hungry,  desires  to 
have  bread  ;  the  form  in  which  it  is  baked,  is  of  no  impor- 
tance to  him,  whether  oblong,  round,  or  quadrangular,  if 
only  well  baked.  So  it  is  with  all  the  sensual  wants  of 
man.  The  house  which  is  to  protect  from  storm,  may  have 
any  form,  if  it  only  answers  the  purpose  for  which  it  is 
intended.  In  the  sphere  of  sensual  desire  and  taste  no  law- 
reigns  ;  for  it  is  the  character  of  law  to  have  necessity  and 
generality,  but  here  one  likes  what  another  cannot  endure. 
1,  for  instance,  like  dishes  prepared  of  flour,  another  dis- 
likes them  ;  1  like  the  fragrance  of  the  hyacinth,  to  another 
it  is  disagreeable.  Taste,  and  the  sensations  of  smell  and 
feeling  are,  therefore,  wholly  relative  ;  they  cannot  be  so 
regulated  by  law  that  the  same  object,  offered  in  the  same 
degree  or  measure,  must  please  all  men. 

The  common  opinion  is,  that  in  the  sphere  of  beauty 
likewise,  every  one  has  a  taste  peculiar  to  himself,  and 
that  consequently  no  rules  can  be  given  for  its  formation. 
In  this  sphere  however,  matter  or  the  material  is  of  no  im- 
portance, because  the  form  alone  interests  us.  If  in  the 
sense  of  taste,  the  properties  of  the  object  become  the  qual- 
ities of  our  sensations,  the  contents  of  our  perception  of 
beauty  is  form.  Hence  he  who  admires  a  beautiful  picture, 
takes  no  interest  in  the  canvass,  but  only  in  the  forms  which 
appear  on  it.  But  form  has  necessity  and  generality,  it  has 
consequently  a  law.  We  have  therefore  the  science  of 
Aesthetics^  which  treats  on  the  forms  of  beauty  ;  the  study 
of  this  science  will  soon  teach  us,  that  from  prosody  up  to 
the  knowledge  of  poetical  characters  and  situations,  all  is 
subject  to  distinct  and  well  defined  rules  ;  that  even  the  sim- 
plest melody  in  music  must  rest  on  them  in  order  to  be  at 
all  pleasing  to  the  ear.  The  form  of  the  most  beautiful 
woman  is  nothing  arbitrary  ;  the  artist  cannot  follow  his 
fancy,  he  must  study  the  character,  the  proportions,  the  na- 
ture of  the  female  frame,  and  then  his  picture  may  express 
that  in  perfection,  which  exhibits  itself  in  all  women  both 
with  generality  and  necessity,  and  without  which  no  being 
could  be  woman.  Bread  is  what  it  is,  independent  of  its 
form  ;  but  a  human  being  in  the  form  of  an  animal,  is  no 


.f^ 


392 


APPENDIX. 


longer  human.  Beauty  has  laws  then,  though  we  hear  it 
constantly  asserted  that  beauty  is  a  matter  of  taste  and 
taste  is  relative — one  person  considering  beautiful,  what  ano- 
ther considers  ugly.  Such  a  jiidiimfnt  would  not  be  met 
with  in  the  sphere  of  moral  philosophy ;  there  none  would 
be  willing  to  say  that  some  consider  it  right  to  utter  false- 
hood and  others  not,  but  all  condemn  falsehood  because  the 
law  is  against  it.  What  then  is  the  reason  that  we  differ 
so  much  in  reference  to  beauty  ? 

1  "Some  do  not  judge  aesthetically.  They  extend  beauty 
over  the  merely  agreeable,  which  is  well  known  to  be  of  a 
relative  character,  because  it  depends  on  the  susceptibility 
of  individuals.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  desire  and  its  excite- 
ment may  here  exercise  an  influence.  An  evil  concu- 
pisence,  a  restless  mobility  of  mind  is  delighted  by  many, 
representations,  forms  and  changes,  which  could  not  receive 
the  approbation  of  the  aesthetical  judgment.  Vanity  also, 
which  only  seeks  for  the  costly  and  striking  belongs  here, 
while  the  vanity  of  others  makes  them  dislike  to  be  out- 
done. To  these  influences  may  also  be  asked  the  incli- 
nation to  repeat  the  opinions  of  others  and  form  our  judg- 
ment by  theirs.  Egotism  and  partiality  may  afiect  the 
judgment  no  less  than  harmless  inclinations,  attachments, 
love,  a  particular  practical  interest  which  prevents  many 
persons  from  enjoying  certain  kinds  of  beauty.  Nor  must 
we  forget  to  mention  that  which  merely  excites,  which 
begets  a  lively  feeling,  as  the  excitement  of  the  senses 
which  prevails  in  youth,  and  with  uncultivated  persons  con- 
tinues to  old  age  ;  vivid  colors  please  the  eye,  noise  the  ear 
of  such.  The  basis  which  without  sensual  desire  is  alone 
favorable  to  the  comprehension  of  form,  must  first  be  cul- 
tivated in  the  soul,  before  we  can  speak  of  an  aesthetical 
judgment. 

2.  Different  persons  do  not  judge  of  the  same  subject. 
The  utiderstanding  of  the  form  according  to  the  nature  of 
its  contents,  pre-supposes  much  exercise  in  the  correspond- 
ing sphere  and  a  clear  consciousness  of  the  parts  and  their 
connection.  Many  perceive  the  whole,  it  is  true,  but  (me 
in  accordance  with  a  prevailing  impression,  which  includes 
many  indistinctions,  another  according  to  a  review  of  all 
the  parts.  The  one  understands  it.  the  other  does  not,  and 
consequently  he  cannot  have  the  form.  Of  the  many  who 
think  they  understand  the  whole,  one  seizes  this  part,  ano- 


APPENDIX.  .iMKm.        383 


iB^^. 


ther  that,  one  notices  more  particularly  the  coloring,  ano- 
ther the  drawing  ;  hence  their  judgments  cannot  he  the 
same." — From  the  above  it  will  a[)pear  that  the  ditTerence 
of  taste  has  its  origin,  not  in  the  idea  and  nature  of  bc^iuty, 
but  in  the  degree  of  individual  cultivation.  Beauty  has 
its  laws,  and  if  all  were  possessed  of  an  equally  cultivated 
taste,  any  masterpiece  would  unite  the  judgments  of  all  as 
readily  as  a  moral  virtue.  But  why  is  it,  that  while  in  the 
sphere  of  morality  the  judgments  of  different  persons  agree 
on  the  same  subject,  as  on  the  immorality  of  suicide,  aes- 
thetical  judgments  depend  so  much  more  on  the  cultivation 
of  the  individual  ? — The  reason  may  be  easily  shown  :  Beau- 
ty has  in  part  reference  to  sensation  and  feeling  ;  but  mor. 
al  judgments  only  to  pure  reason.  To  explain  this  we 
offer  the  following  remarks  : — No  one  finds  it  difficult  to 
admit  that  every  triantile  must  have  three  sides  ;  or  that  a 
horse  is  a  quadruped  ;  such  judgments  are  wholly  theoretical 
and  their  predicates  analytical,  that  is,  the  predicate  is  con- 
tained in  its  logical  subject  and  is  only  to  be  drawn  out.  But 
aesthetical  and  moral  judgments  are  not  analytical,  hui  syn- 
thetical and  these  are  more  difficult.  When  I  say.  This  gold 
piece  is  mine,  the  judgment  expresses  the  idea  of  property,  and 
though  gold  may  be  seen,  the  idea  of  property  has  no  refer- 
ence to  any  sense,  cannot  be  seen,  nor  heard.  Neither  is 
the  idea  of  property  contained  in  gold  ;  its  nature  is  not 
affected  by  it  ;  it  is  wholly  indifferent  to  this  idea,  and  it 
matters  not  whether  it  is  in  my  possession  or  that 
of  another.  Gold  is  yellow,  has  a  specific  weight,  is  mal- 
leable &;c. — these  are  theoretical  and  at  the  same  time  ana- 
lytical judgments  ;  these  properties  can  be  seen  by  the 
senses;  but,  This  piece  of  gold  is  mine. — this  is  a  moral, 
judgment — here  the  predicate  mine,  is  synthetically  con- 
nected with  the  subject  gold  ;  it  expresses  its  relation  to  me 
and  this  relation  is  placed  in  the  predicate  l)y  myself.  Sen- 
sation has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Aesthetical  judgments, 
on  the  other  hand,  have  still  a  reference  io  feeling,  for  beauty 
is  the  existence  of  a  pure  thought  in  a  sensible  form  and 
by  the  latter  it  appears  to  our  senses,  and  hence  they  re- 
ceive a  relativeness  by  the  greater  or  less  cultivationof  our 
subjective  feelings.  Proper^]/ is  without  a  sensible  form  ; 
its  form  is  a  purely  rational  one,  and  as  such  invisible ; 
hence  our  sensual  feelings  cannot  affect  our  judgment. 
The  difference  there   between  aesthetical  and  moral  judg- 


384  "      APPENDIX. 

ments  is  this  :  Both  connect  synthetically  a  predicate  with  a 
logical  subject,  by  which  they  express  the  relation  of  this 
subject  to  him  who  jud^res  :  but  the  one  connects  it  by  feel- 
ing, the  other  by  comprehension.  When  I  judge  aesthetically 
1  pronounce  the  feeling  produced  in  me  by  the  sight  of  an 
object,  as  its  quality  and  say,  the  horse  is  beautiful,  the  storm 
is  sublime  !  When  1  judge  practically,  I  pronounce  a 
thought,  an  idea  that  I  have  of  the  object,  as  its  predicate, 
as  for  instance  when  judging  teleoJ  agio  ally  I  say,  iron  is 
useful,  the  predicate  useful  does  not  belong  to  the  nature  of 
iron,  but  expresses  its  relation  to  a  certain  end,  to  which  it 
is  wholly  indifferent  ;  or  wtien  judging  morally,  I  say, 
ibis  pearl  is  mine, — then  the  connection  of  subject  and  pre- 
dicate is  brought  about  by  him  who  judges,  and  by  the  idea 
he  has  of  right,  duty  and  moral  obligation. 

NOTE  III.— TO  THE  CONCLUSION  OR  REMARKS  ON 
RELIGION. 

We  said,  that  feelings  in  general  were  without  objects.  This 
assertion  may  appear  somewhat  abrupt,  ^nd  it  seems  there- 
fore necessary  to  add  a  note  on  this  subject. — The  feelings 
spoken  of,  are  not  those  connected  with  a  sensual  percep- 
tion, nor  those  of  an  entirely  local  nature,  but  the  feelings 
of  the  heart.  It  is  the  union  of  Feeling  and  Thinking ; 
both  penetrate  each  other  in  it.  Its  feelings  differ  therefore 
from  merely  bodily  feelings,  though  there  are  the  feelings 
of  health,  which  not  merely  local,  spread  cheerfulness  over 
our  whole  existence.  So,  the  feelings  of  rest  and  recreation. 
These  feelings  however  have  reference  to  life  itself,  the  en- 
joyment ;  the  feelings  of  the  heart  stand  related  to  knowledge, 
and  are  therefore  connected  with  thinking.  They  refer  to 
the  good,  the  beautiful,  sind  the  true,  likewise  to  the  opposite 
of  all  of  them  ;  yet  as  mere  feelings  they  are  nothing  but 
the  general  susceptibility  of  men,  to  enter  into  a  relation 
to  them  and  comprehend  their  nature  by  thought.  With- 
out feeling,  our  knowledge  would  be  without  animation 
and  life,  cold  and  abstract ;  without  knowledge  our  feeling 
would  be  blind.  Feeling  would  give  warmth  and  life  to 
knowledge,  knowledge  light  to  feeling.  These  are  conse- 
quently inseparable,  and  their  union  is  what  the  Germans 
call  Gemueth,  a  word,  that  cannot  be  translated  into  En- 
glish.  Feeling  however  differs  from  Thinking;  the  latter 
stands  higher  than  the  former  ;  the  former  has  to  pass  over 


APPENDIX.  385 

into  the  latter.  A  man  of  mere  feeling,  a  lawyer,  who  ap- 
peals to  his  feeling  of  rif^ht  or  wrong  instead  of  referring 
ad  titulum  et  legem  is  worth  little.  What  then  is  the  dif- 
ference between  feeling  and  knowing  a  thing?  When  I 
know  a  thing,  I  acknowledge  its  existence  independent  of  me  ; 
there  is  consequently  a  relation  of  myself  to  something  out 
of  myself.  VVhen  I  merely  feel  a  thing,  the  feeling  and 
the  thing  have  but  one  existence,  for  the  thing  felt  is  not  sep- 
arated from  the  feeling,  but  merged  in  it.  Both  are  there- 
fore identical  ;  the  one  is  not  objective  to  the  other.  Hence 
it  is,  that  what  I  feel  I  am  certain  of,  but  cannot  say  clearly 
what  it  is.  Feeling  gives  certainty,  we  said,  but  not  truth. 
No  sooner  do  I  distinguish  between  feeling  and  its  contents, 
than  I  judge,  I  am  above  feeling.  W^hen  feeling  is  made  the 
ground  of  religion,  when  it  is  said  to  be  its  origin — the 
meaning  must  be,  that  God  or  the  Infinite  is  felt,  and  only 
felt ;  is  not  known,  not  objective,  has  no  existence  inde- 
pendent of  the  feeling.  Thus  God  is  merely  internal,  wholly 
subjective  in  man,  God  is  in  our  heart,  but  the  heart  is 
more  than  feeling,  as  we  have  seen;  it  is  the  permanent 
center  and  union  of  all  our  activities,  while  feelings  are 
changeable,  go,  and  come. 

Feelings  then  are  merely  subjective,  have  no  object.  This 
must  sufficiently  appear  from  the  note  and  the  text,  to  which 
it  refers  ;  but  let  us  ask  yet. — How  does  this  feeling  of  de- 
pendence on  the  Infinite  originate  1  The  feelings  oi  truth, 
beauty  and  moral  goodness  accompany  our  theoretical,  aes- 
thetical  and  moral  judgments,  but  this  feeling  of  dependence 
is  to  be  the  source  of  all  our  knowledge  concerning  di- 
vine things,  it  is  to  be  primordium  and  principium  religionis. 
There  are  but  two  ways  in  which  it  can  be  excited  :  1.  We 
pre-suppose  a  sense  for  religion,  as  there  has  been  one  sug- 
gested for  morality  the  (sensus  moralis.)  This  sense  produces 
the  religious  feeling.  It  is  not  a  sense  like  that  of  the  eye 
or  ear,  none,  the  organ  of  which  Gall  or  his  followers  could 
discover.  It  is  a  mere  capacity  of  ^mw^  the  feeling  of  de- 
pendence. The  nature  of  sense  is  to  receive,  that  of  the 
sense  for  religion  is  to  give.  A  celebrated  divine  has  illus- 
trated this  by  the  following  comparison :  "  We  might  take 
this  sense  in  an  image,  like  the  grotto,  in  which  Pythia 
has  placed  her  tripod  sitting  on  which  she  becomes  inspired 
by  the  vapors  ascending  from  below.  So  this  sense  is  the 
oracle  ;  the  dark  feelings  are  the  vapors.     But  in  the  sphere 

49 


386  APPENDIX. 

of  intellect  all  must  be  clear,  distinct,  precise,  and  definite." 
Man  must  have  cognitions  knowledge  of  his  religious  duties 
and  rights,  of  the  divine  law  or  will ;  when  he  has  them, 
his  religious  feelings  may  aid  him,  but  these  cognitions  will 
never  proceed  from  Feeling  as  such,  no  more  than  light 
will  proceed  from  sight, 

2.  The  second  way  of  exciting  the  religious  feeling  of 
dependence  of  the  Infinite  would  be  an  immediate  influence 
of  God  upon  the  feeling.     "  Feeling  as  such  is  slothful  in- 
■  *  difference,  a  general  inactivity  waiting   ^ot  ^n  excitement, 

M\^  *  *  Since  the  feeling  and  piety  is  one  as  to  hind  so  that 
%'-^-^f:^  %\t  cannot  be  the  same  with  other  feelings,  it  follows  that 
*♦  f  .. .  .,  :  God  must  give  the  impulse  of  the  excitement  and  that  thus 
.^'  *•  -*...the  feeling  becomes  a  pious  one."  Thus  the  full  feeling  of 
J'  *■  piety  becomes  one  of  an  absolute  dependence,  because  it 
cannot  excite  itself,  but  must  wait  for  being  excited  by  ano- 
ther power.  But  as  God  is  only  felt,  it  cannot  be  said,  what  , 
he  is.  The  feeling  is  therefore,  though  full  of  contents,  nev- 
ertheless empty,  for  whatever  it  contains  is  unknown  to 
it. — If  this  feeling  then  is  the  origin  of  religion  and  if  it 
must  be  excited  by  God,  it  will  follow,  that  all  religions  are 
but  a  gradual  development  of  the  religion  and  that  Chris- 
tianity itself  is  co-ordinate  to  the  Jewish  religion  and  to 
Islamism.  And  again  it  will  follow,  that  God  must  excite 
the  religious  feeling,  from  which  Feticism  proceeded,  no  less 
than  that  from  which  proceeds  the  Christian  religion.  The 
idea  of  a  revelation  becomes  superfluous,  it  being  nothing  else 
than  the  external  manifestation  of  this  internal  feeling, 
which  when  spreading  over  and  communicating  itself  to 
others  and  forming  a  communion  among  them,  is  revelation, 
the  same  feeling,  only  more  spread. 

We  then  find  no  cause  to  change  our  view  on  the  origin 
of  religion.  It  is  the  gift  of  God.  History  shows  that  all 
knowledge  of  God  was  handed  down  by  tradition  from  the 
earliest  times  to  all  the  tribes  of  mankind.  All  nations  pro- 
fess, to  have  received  their  religion  from  God  directly  and 
those  that  are  cultivated  and  have  written  books,  have  also 
a  volume,  sacred  to  them,  because  it  contains  a  revelation  ; 
the  idea  is  therefore  generally  spread,  that  man  can  have 
knowledge  of  God  only  through  God  ;  this  idea  would  be 
less  general  were  the  notion  that  the  feeling  of  dependence 
is  the  origin  of  religion  correct. 


w 


ERRATA. 


From  the  Author's  being  at  a  distance  from  the  place  of  publi- 
cation, a  few  errors  have  crept  into  this  volume,  which  the  reader 
is  requested  to  correct  as  follows  : — 

Page  9,  after  Introduction  insert  Chap.  I. 
"  °  18,  for  Chap.  1  read  Chap  II. 

"    47,  line  9  from  the  bottom  for  internal  read  external. 
"    48,  line  5  from  the  top,  before  "  sulijected"  insert  wholly. 
"     60,  line  17  from  the  bottom,  insert  a  semi-colon  after  "  learned" 

also  the  word  while  before  "  Linnaeus,"  and  in  line  16  erase  the 

word  while,  also  in  line  15  from  the  bottom,  insert  before  "  two" 

and  after  Meiners  the  word  accepted. 
"  81,  line  9  from  the  top,  for  all  read  in. 
"    88,  line  15  from  the  bottom  transfer  the  examples  given  line  15 

to  Une  7  from  the  bottom  to  line  8  from  the  top. 
"     164,  line  6  from  the  bottom,  for  moon  read  noon. 
"     195,  line  11  trom  the  bottom,  for  s^-i^c;^  read  5^r?<cA-. 
"     190,  line  10  from  the  top,  for  on  the  other,  read  on  the  one. 
"     196,  line  10  from  the  top,  for  different,  read  difficult. 
"     197,  line  14  from  the  top,  erase  but. 
"     208,  line  17  from  the  top,  for  activity,  read  activities. 
"    209,  line  10  from  the  top,  insert  before  what,  double  commas  (" j 

also  line  17  from  the  bottom,  after  means. 
"     212,  hne  1  at  the  top,  for  also,  readonly. 
"    212,  line  12  from  ihe  top,  for  smiles  read  songs. 
"     219,  line  6  from  the  bottom,  for  but  read  that. 
"    221,  line  10  from  the  top,  for  apart  read  contained. 
"     222,  line  17  from  the  top,  for  shows  read  chooses. 
"    226,  line  5  from  the  bottom,  for  were  read  are. 
"     235,  line  6  from  the  top,  for  it  is  time,  read  while  at  the  same  time. 
«       «       "  12     "     "     "    erase  il:  line  13  put  a  colon  after  Am  and 

erase  the  comma  after  desire. 
"    235,  line  4  from  bottom,  for  one  read  are. 
"    244,  line  5  from  the  bottom,  for  distant  read  distinct. 
"     245,  line  15  from  the  top,  for  care  read  ease. 
«     248,  hne  21  from  the  top,  for  en  read  an. 
"      "     line  27  from  the  top,  for /or  read  if. 
"    251,  hne  14  from  the  bottom,  for  this  read  their. 


i 


388  ERRATA. 

Page  251,  line  24  from  the  bottom,  before  Thinling,  insert  double 
commas  (")  and  also  line  2  after  the  word  thi7ig. 

"    258,  line  10  from  the  top,  for  we  cannot,  read  we  can  only. 

"     272,  line  17  from  the  top,  after  dravn  read  out. 

"    288,  line  14  from  ihetop,  for  lose  read  love. 

"     289,  line  17  from  the  bottom,  for  more  read  none. 

"         "  10         "         "  {ox  organ  resL&  origin. 

«     292,  line  20  from  the  bottom,  for  Languishing  read  laughing. 

"    299,  line  18  from  the  bottom,  for  o%e  read  our. 

"  306,  line  17  from  the  top,  insert  inverted  commas  (")  before  the 
words.  The  avaricious,  &c. — also  in  line  11  from  the  bottom 
after  the  'woxAs,find  thern. 

"     309,  line  12  from  the  top,  for  light  read  life. 

"         "  3  from  the  bottom,  for  himself  read  him. 

"     318,  line  2  from  the  top,  for  conception  red^A  corru/ption, 

*'     319,  line  1  from  the  top  for  bitterness  read  littleness. 


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